


When Wise Mechs are Banished

by Exactlywhat



Series: Wise Mechs [1]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 30,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exactlywhat/pseuds/Exactlywhat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The how's and why's of the banishment of certain mechs to Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. Prequel to my story Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prowl

**Author's Note:**

> The prequel to my story "Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread"... Enjoy!

PROWL

“I am sorry, but that is not our best option. You must send Battalion Sigma around the west flank, and have them lie in wait. Send Battalion Delta down the center, and Battalion Omega to the east. Once they attack, Battalion Sigma must move in, around the side and back, and attack.” Black and white doorwings flicked, and golden optics blinked. “The three forces will divide the enemy troops, and they will be easily picked off.”

Hard blue optics stared at the black and white Praxian. “Prowl. I’m head tactician here. You'll listen to what I say, do what I say, and you don't question it,” Dropbox said in a low growl. Prowl frowned. 

“I understand, sir, but I must protest. What you are proposing will result in the deactivation of over seventy six percent of our troops. My plan has a predicted success rate of ninety four point four five percent and a predicted possible mortality rate of only thirteen point nine nine percent.”

“I don't care what numbers that fancy battle computer of yours kicks out. I am head tactician. You are the junior tactician. We follow my plans. Not yours.”

Prowl's doorwings stiffened. “Of course, sir,” he rumbled, armor flaring, then flattening in anger. 

Dropbox issued the command, telling all three battalions to attack outright. Prowl flinched as the plan was transmitted, and the confirmations came in from the battalion, then section leaders. 

The mechs moved forward. Many fell. Prowl watched, furious, as all his predictions started on their way to becoming facts, rather than a simple calculations.

Circulating a long draft of air through his vents, Prowl made a decision. Slag command, slag the consequences. Mechs were dying, and he could do something about it. 

::Failsafe, take your team down around the east side. Take cover there and wait for my signal,:: Prowl snarled into his comm link. Dropbox jumped from where he had been sitting at the monitors watching the battle and made for Prowl. ::Dancepast, round up what's your team and what's left of Darkstar's.:: The black and white tactician moved back, toward the door of the command center. ::Flashfire, you're in command of Sprint's team.:: Once in the hall, the Praxian transformed and raced off, hurrying from the building and toward the battlefield, listening to the battle chatter and shouting commands over Dropbox the whole while. 

Once the sound of explosions and lasers filled his audios, he transformed. He was atop a half-collapsed building, able to observe the entirety of the battlefield. 

::Knockback, take your team through the center. Dancepast and Flashfire, your teams will cover his. Silverwind, take your fliers on a bombing run. Go around back, take out their artillery units. And Dropbox, all due respect, shut the slag up,:: Prowl said as soon as he knelt down on the ashy roof. 

There was no hesitation from the fighters. They jumped to follow Prowl's orders, eager to have some form of direction. Dropbox had commanded the attack, then given only vague and very sparse orders since. The troops were familiar with Prowl. They knew he was very strict, but they also knew he was competent. They trusted him. 

Prowl directed the rest of the destruction of the Decepticon forces from his ashy roof. Once he had determined that the remaining enemy troops were either in full retreat or lying deactivated on Cybertron's war-torn surface, he descended from the building and joined the surviving troops. There were fewer than he would have hoped, but more than there would have been had he not overridden Dropbox. 

But consequences came, despite the lives he had saved. After the battle, he was taken to the brig, and his charge, a tiny gray Praxian by the name of Bluestreak was brought to him. He cuddled the little frame to his chassis, smiling gently down at the recharging youngling. Then he frowned. 

Usually, the punishment for disobeying a superior officer as drastically as he had was immediate termination. He had thought it a worthwhile sacrifice, to give his spark to save those he could. But at the time, he had not considered his little charge. Bluestreak had already lost his city, his creators, siblings, and friends. What would happen if the tenuous Caretaker-Charge bond between them was broken?

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Three cycles later he, with Bluestreak in his arms, was transported to Iacon to be put on trial. They stood him in front of Sentinel Prime and what was left of the council. Prowl didn't bow his helm. He kept his doorwings stiff and upright. He stated what had been ordered of him, what he knew, and what he had done. Thoughts of his little gray charge flitted through the back of his processor the whole time. 

Then one of the council members asked him if he would repeat his actions. A tiny, grim smirk tugged at Prowl's lips. 

“I regret nothing. What I did, I did knowing the consequences. I deliberately disobeyed my senior officer. I saved what Autobot lives I could. Whatever happens to me today, I have no regrets. I never will. I do know that what I did could be considered treason, and that the punishment for such is termination. However, I am the caretaker of one of the surviving younglings from Praxus. For that reason, and that reason only, I beg that you do not sentence me to death. Lock me away if you will, but please do not give Bluestreak anything more to mourn.”

Sentinel and the council members exchanged glances. The Prime vented and rebooted his optics. “Very well. Autobot Prowl. You did save many lives, and breaking the bond between yourself and the youngling would be detrimental to his already damaged mental state... I will not sentence you to deactivation. Instead, I am sending you to an outpost in space. Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. It is a two orn journey. You will leave next orn.”

“Yes, sir,” Prowl said, lifting his helm resolutely. “I understand, sir.”

With that, Prowl was led from the room, helm held high, face blank. 

Three orns later, a chattering gray youngling in his arms, he walked into the base known officially as Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. However, about a groon after Prowl's arrival and subsequent rise to Base Commander, another mech would arrive, and rename the base “the Pit.”


	2. Ratchet

Sentinel Prime didn't often go out and fight on the battlefield. When he did, he was always surrounded by guards, and if he did any real fighting, it was only the few weak, small mechs the guards let past. 

This time, though, a Decepticon sniper caught the Prime in his sights. It was a lethal wound, but only if not repaired immediately.

So Sentinel Prime was rushed to the nearest capable medic. Who happened to be named Ratchet. 

The red and white medic hurried to patch lines and stop the leaking as soon as he met up with the Prime's bearers out on the field. Once the Prime was stable, he called for a transport and accompanied the offline Prime to the nearest base with a medical facility to complete repairs. 

 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“That was a slagging stupid thing to do,” were the words that greeted the Prime as he onlined. The massive red mech groaned and lifted a hand to his helm. 

“What was stupid?” he asked, and a quiet growl met the query.

“You went out on the battlefield. Look, I know it does a lot of fragging good for troop morale, but getting yourself slagged pushes that same morale of the Autobots off a cliff in the other direction. Seriously! I have to deal with stupid frontliners and crazy saboteurs, and all kinds of other things! I really don't need to deal with a glitching suicidal Prime as well!”

Sentinel had onlined his optics sometime in the middle of this rant to see the medic looming above him. A heavy looking wrench was clenched in a red fist, and icy blue optics stared daggers at him out from under a sharp, gray chevron. The medic growled again, glaring down at the Prime. 

“Slaggit, I know you aren't a warbuild. The Matrix and the best frame modifiers can't change that. Not at all. Your programming is that of a peace-time leader! You can change every fragging thing you want, but I know a thing or two about coding, and I know a thing or two about the Matrix and its bearer. The coding you had before getting it is hardwired into your spark.” The wrench was waving above his helm now. “Maybe you can lead an army, but you can't go out and fight! You aren't built for it, and the Matrix won't allow reprogramming. You weren't ready or capable of fighting before, you aren't now, you stupid, idiotic Prime!”

Sentinel revved his engine and sat up. “Listen, medic-”

“No, you listen, Prime! My Med Bay, my rules, no matter who or what you are! I don't like repairing idiots who get injured because of their own idiocy!” The wrench descended, and there was a loud clang as it struck the red helm of the Prime. “Listen here, Prime. Be careful who you choose to be your successor. Choose someone who can fight, but doesn't like to. Not someone like you who likes to fight but can't.”

Sentinel rubbed the new dent on the back of his helm and glared at the medic, suddenly feeling like a rebellious youngling. He didn't like that at all. So he stood up and loomed over the audacious medic. 

“Listen here, Autobot. I am the Prime. I am the Commander of the Autobot forces-”

“What?” Ratchet snorted condescendingly, “you think I don't know that? I was called in here because you needed the best, because we couldn't loose our precious Prime. I was called away from the front lines to treat you. I don't know how many soldiers, Autobot soldiers, good, loyal soldiers, are dying because I’m here lecturing your aft, not out there doing what I can. So all due respect, Prime, but at the moment, I don't really have any for you.”

With that, the medic walked out of the Med Bay, calling over his comm for a shuttle transport. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Get me the name, rank, file... everything about the medic that treated me,” Sentinel ordered as he strode into the Command Center. Every mech saluted him, then returned to their jobs. One mech, Sentinel's personal assistant, Notecard, stepped forward. 

“Of course, sir. Just a moment, sir.”

The file was found quickly, and put on a datapad to be handed over to the Prime. Sentinel skimmed through it, frowning. An expert medic. There wasn't a better medic on Cybertron. But he had been prosecuted over and over again for assault, to both officers and subordinates. That wrench had made contact with quite a few helms before Sentinel's. 

A low growl rumbled in the Prime's chassis. “Notecard?”

“Yessir?”

“Record a message for me. Send it to the medic. Ratchet.”

“Yessir.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Ratchet stared at the datapad, standing in the middle of the chaotic Med Bay. Soldiers lay, moaning or offline, or silent, on the berths. Medics rushed around, flitting from patient to patient, doing what they could.

And Ratchet stood there, in his own bubble of silence, datapad held in his too-tight fist, face blank. 

Then he subspaced the datapad and went back to work. 

Only one mech was aware enough to see and comprehend what had happened. A large, red, frontline warrior, sitting at the side of a berth containing a similarly framed yellow frontliner. 

The frenzy of post-battle repairs died down as the orn finished, and, as usual, Ratchet was the last medic still working. 

Sideswipe rose from his silent vigil, walking over and taking the welder gently from the medic's hand. 

“Ratchet... what was that datapad about?”

The medic was silent. His empty hands shook. He shuttered his optics and ducked his helm. 

“Ratchet?”

“I've been reassigned,” he whispered, and even the red Twin, who was standing so close their arms brushed, had a hard time hearing it. 

“Why? What did you do?”

A dry, harsh laugh barked from Ratchet's vocalizer. “I finally hit the wrong mech. I was called out last orn, remember? To help the Prime. Heh. Guess I shouldn't have hit him over the helm.”

Sideswipe froze. “Ratchet... what base did he assign you to?”

“84G1-07MVE-VR5E.”

The red frontliner was silent and still for a long moment. “I've never heard of it.”

“You wouldn't. It's a little base, way out on a moon, which orbits a large gas giant in a far solar system. There's no real reason to have a base there. Very few usable minerals, no nothing. So far out of the slagging way... Nothing happens out there.”

Sideswipe leaned gently against the medic's shoulder plating. “Ratch'... I’m sorry. When do you leave?”

“Next orn.”

“Primus.”

“I know.”

“Well, let me tell you bye, before you leave.”

Another dry laugh. “Sides, I’ve got to pack. I leave as soon as I’ve got everything.”

The frontliner's vents cycled a heavy draft of air. “Then let me help with the medical supplies. I’m in here often enough I know what most of it is and where it's at.”

“Thank you, Sideswipe. Thank you.”

“No problem, Ratchet. And... Sunny and I’ll miss you.”

“I'll miss you too, you slagging scoundrel.”

“Hah! You love us too much.”

“Of course I do. Not.” Ratchet paused and looked down at the tools he was shoving into his subspace. “Sideswipe... don't get into trouble while I’m gone. I...”

“Hey. Ratch'. You practically raised us. Sunny and I both know that nobody wastes your time, and if we offline, that'd be a big waste.” 

Ratchet smiled. “Right. Don't go wasting my time, Sides. Tell Sunstreaker the same thing. And thank you. I’ll... I’ll see you later, Sideswipe.”

“Bye, Doc Bot. Fair travels.”

Ratchet started slightly at the very old farewell before returning the traditional response. “And smooth roads to you.”

One more nod to each other, and the red and white medic left. Sideswipe returned to the chair next to his brother's berth and vented heavily. “I'll miss you, Ratch'. Who's gonna patch us up now?” he whispered to the silence of the Med Bay, occupied only by himself and the stasis-locked injured. It suddenly seemed very large without the warm, if a bit rough-around-the-edges presence of the red and white medic.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Ratchet stepped off the shuttle to see a black and white Praxian framed mech waiting for him. 

“Uh... Sir,” he mumbled, nodding respectfully, fully aware that after his demotion, he would most likely be the lower ranked bot, no matter who this was. 

“Hello. Medical Officer Ratchet, I presume?” the black and white asked primly, doorwings twitching slightly. 

“Anyone else you're expecting on this Primus-forsaken rock?”

A faint smirk twitched at the edges of the Praxian's lips. “Not particularly,” he answered. 

Then something else he had said registered in Ratchet's processor. “Wait. You said Officer. I ain't no officer. Not anymore.”

“True, Sentinel demoted you. But our only other medics are actually someone with only basic field training and... well, Swoop, while very interested, has only had so much training available. So now, you are the most experienced and highest ranking medic, even with your demotion. So I am promoting you, and as Base Commander, I have the power to do so. You are now the Chief Medical Officer of this base.”

Ratchet blinked slowly. “That mean I can give a good whack to whoever needs one?”

“Perhaps.”

“Heh. Maybe this place ain't so much of a Pit after all.”

“Medic, you have no idea.”


	3. Jazz

“Because of your failure on the field, and because we cannot risk another such failure, Jazz, I am removing you from active duty.”

Words. Looping, over and over. What had happened? Something bad. His partner. Team mate. Friend. Shot down. Bad information. Old information. A traitor. 

Yes... A traitor... Someone had told. The Decepticons knew. They were waiting. Farshot. Standing in front of the enemy. Run fast! Run hard! Run and get out and get back and live! 

Blasters. A shout. Energon. Then running. Running. Pedes hitting the floor. Spark pulsing. A big blur. 

Then the base. The commander. Jazz, off the field. Behind a desk. Wandering. Lost. Forgotten. 

Coward, Jazz whispered to himself. You ran. You ran. Left Farshot. Farshot died. Now stuck. Can't go out. Can't avenge him. Can't do anything.

And Jazz was stuck. He had been stuck on desk duty. Told the risk of having him go out again was too great. As though he was the traitor. 

Not a traitor. Betrayed. Left for dead. Now denied any chance of revenge. Stuck in a place where he couldn't move. Suffocating. Dying. Still. He was rusting. Thoughts were poisoning his processors and frame. 

Motion. Moving. Keep thoughts at bay. Actions take away the pain. Distraction. Bury it. 

And there was always pain. Always lingering there, deep in his spark. Drifting. Happily, sometimes. Content. Other times, alone and forgotten.

Pain, when his creators had been violently deactivated. Polyhex. Energon spattered on walls. Shattered chassis. Gray frames. Wailing. Who was crying? A note. They didn't pay – so they paid with their sparks. 

On the streets. Energon processing tank empty. Aching. Armor scratched. Shifty optics. Dirty energon. Poison. Careful. Wary. Skittish and twitchy. Moving. 

Another city. Where was it? Always moving. Searching. Searching for... something. Something that didn't want to be found. Lost. Wandering. Dirty. Hungry. 

More cities, more time. Always hungry. Always scratched. Always dirty. Where was home? Did he have a home?

Lost. Pain in the spark. Digging deep, never letting go. Cold, dark claws, staining his spark and processors. The world spinning, and him racing to catch up. Scrambling. Left behind. 

The war. Even more pain. More loss. Friends. Comrades. Fighting for something... he didn't know what. Not anymore. Or did he ever?

Finding anchors. His friends. Laughing at and with.

Prowl. The biggest anchor. Friend. Then lover. Close. Closeness. Love. Family. Someone who finally tied him down and made him think. Stopped the drifting. Held him close. The thing he had been searching for. 

Prowl was an anchor. Solid. Reliable. Steady and smart and whole. They held each other down, down to reality. The little smiles. The quiet moments spent between breems, hidden from friends and comrades. 

Then breaking it off. I’m afraid, Prowl had said. Afraid that if we do this any longer, we won't be able to go back. It's a war. We cannot risk ourselves. Maybe once it is finished. I love you, Jazz. Too much. 

Agreeing. Letting go. Requesting new assignments. Forgetting the black and white. 

The world turning gray again. Black and white bled together. Falling. Floating. Drifting. Lost. New faces. New assignments. 

Energon on his claws. Sparks guttering out. Dying flickers of energy on plating. His plating. Scorched. Burned. Dead mechs at his pedes. 

Small anchors. Little friendships. Farshot. Vicious. Efficient. Kind. Caring. Anchor. A memory flickered in Jazz's processor. Prowl. 

The mission. Data retrieval. Assassination. Simple. Easy. 

Traitor. Enemies waiting. Farshot dead. Processed energon. Blasters. Pain. 

The base. “Removing you from active duty.” Behind a desk. Datapads. Mission briefs. Alone. Farshot was gone. Everyone else... simple shells moved by a distant puppeteer. Purposeless. Barren, desolate frames. 

That horrible feeling of emptiness. He was a devoid of life. A puppet like his comrades. 

Jazz was stuck. Floating in his own processor, lost within his own thought processes. 

There was too much energy running through his circuits. Too many thoughts in his CPU. Too much. Not enough. Datapads. Glyphs. No motion. Stagnant. Suffocating. Stillness. 

Stillness was okay during missions. The anticipation, the waiting... that was good. 

This stillness. This doing nothing. This was the stuff Jazz's nightmares were made of. Motion was what he lived off. It's antithesis, stillness, was a poison in his frame. Leeching life out every second. Bleeding. Drained. Emptied until there was nothing left. 

Dead and gone and lost and drifting until nothing but an empty husk and a spark that didn't pulse were left. 

He coasted. Time passed. Close to a vorn, the glyphs told him. He didn't care. Didn't understand. Didn't want to. 

Then the commander again. A different one. The other had died. 

They were all dead, though. Puppets going through the motions of life. 

The commander. Haunted optics. Clean, scratched, faded armor. Empty words. 

“You waste resources. You've been transferred. You leave next orn. Pack your things, Jazz.”

Leaving? To where? And who was Jazz?

A blink behind the visor. The commander turned away. Jazz sat. He got his energon. Recharged. Returned to the desk. Sat. 

The commander came. 

“Where were you, Jazz? The shuttle is waiting! Come on. What? What do you mean, 'where are we going'? I told you last orn. You're... What do you mean you don't remember?”

Jazz followed. Steps echoing on metal walls. Walls. Closing in. Stagnant. Dying and rusting and drifting. 

On a shuttle. It moved. The pilot tried talking. The words were distant, a buzzing, quiet and annoying and unintelligible to Jazz. 

The pilot stopped talking. The ship moved. Jazz sat. 

Still. Quiet. Cold. Empty. 

The shuttle rocked. Jazz looked up. Listless. Uninterested. Physical reaction. 

The shuttle stopped. 

“We're here.”

Where was 'here'? Why were they 'here'? 

“Jazz. It's time to get out.”

Out where? 

Jazz stood. Walked. A puppet. Invisible strings. Pulled. Something... 

His spark moved. 

Such a small thing. No longer dying. 

Black and white. Gray was separating. Black and white. Light and darkness. Hope and despair. 

“Prowl?” Whispered words. Scared this apparition would disappear. “Prowl!”

Wide optics beneath a visor. Slow, stumbling steps. Don't disappear. 

“Jazz?” 

Prowl was surprised. Jazz was puzzled. Had they not told him he was coming? They were close enough to touch. Jazz lifted a hand. Fingers brushed thick chassis armor. Solid. Warm. There. 

The tactician found himself with an armful of saboteur. 

“Prowl, Prowl, Prowl,” the saboteur chanted. The tactician, his lifeline. Here. 

A strange look. “Jazz, are you alright?”

“I... Prowl. Prowler.”

Prowler. That's what he called him. That little frown. Amused more than frustrated. A worry creased brow. “Jazz, what's wrong?”

“I don't know. Not anymore.” Whispers. Quiet. 

“Oh, Jazz. What's happened to you?”

Happened? Right. He used to be full. Not empty. Bright. Not gray. Smiling, laughing. Still drifting, but alright with that. Not like this. Not falling. Not lost. Tainted memories cleared slightly. He hadn't always been this way. Had he? No. No. He couldn't have been. 

“Come on, Jazz. Let's get you inside.”

The silver mech followed. Obedient. Unthinking. 

That's what he did. He didn't think. Thinking hurt. No motion to stop it. No motion to counter, to balance. Didn't he used to question? Didn't he used to think? To wonder? To dream? Didn't he used to live?

A berth. Funny, he could feel it. Sheets. Warmth. 

Warmth? 

Yes, beside him. A mech. A solid body.

Anchor. 

“Jazz. Lay down. Recharge.”

Jazz lay down. He recharged. 

Prowl rested at his side. 

Night was silent. Black and empty of thought. It passed quickly. 

Morning. An alarm. 

“Mm... Good morning, Jazz.”

Soft words. Quiet voice. Calm, but not dead. Still, but not poison.

Anchor. Solid, warm, steady. Dreams. Dreams come to life. Hope bloomed again. Hope and light and happiness. 

“Prowler.”

“Are you back with me now, Jazz?”

Jazz blinked. “Was Ah gone?”

Prowl smiled. Softly, gently. “You were a bit out of your processor. What happened?”

Jazz was silent. “Lotsa things. Prowler... Promise me. Promise you'll never leave me 'gain.”

“Of course, Jazz. I promise.” Quiet. Sparkfelt. Honest and clear and bright. Arms tightened in a hug. Did they used to feel this good? A hug. This warm? This filling? “Now come. I will show you the base.”

Jazz stood. No longer drifting. Quiet, but not a poison. Clean. Safe. He had an anchor. 

Prowl led the way to the door and palmed it open. “Welcome to the Pit, Jazz.”

The saboteur cocked a hidden optic ridge, feeling himself steadily returning, filling his frame. His spark sped up. Pulsing again. Warm. Alive. Full. “Trust me, Prowler. Ain't no more'a a Pit than Ah've already been through. This? This's gonna be heaven.”


	4. Wheeljack

BOOOOOOOOM!!!

“WHEELJACK!”

Mechs everywhere on the little base cycled heavy gusts of air through their vents. The supposed engineer had been transferred to their base less than a groon ago, and these explosions, followed by their base commander's verbal explosions, had become rather commonplace. With barely a thought more than, “This got boring a long time ago,” they went back to whatever they had been doing before the loud boom. 

Wheeljack sat up, shaking his helm, audial fins flashing a multitude of colors. “Well. That was interesting.”

“WHEELJACK!”

The inventor jumped. “What?” he yelped, and glanced toward the door. Which seemed to be welded shut. Oops. “Uh... Just a minute! I know I’ve got a welder around here somewhere...”

The base commander, a tiny blue mech, though not quite a minibot, snarled at the doors. “I don't care. Wheeljack, you infernal pit-spawn, I’m putting you on the next shuttle out of here!”

If the commander had been able to see the engineer, he might have retracted the comment, or maybe would have said it nicer. Wheeljack's audial fins were a swirling mixture of deep blue and black, and his expression, despite being masked, still managed to pull off a rather pathetic kicked bumblepuppy expression. 

Unfortunately, the commander could not see the expression and went, huffing and grumbling, back to his office to organize the transport. Wheeljack stood up and went about cleaning up his lab – the lab, it was no longer his. He started stowing whatever he thought he would be able to get away with in his subspace, then had to pull half of the stuff out again to get to his welder so he could get out of the room. 

Wheeljack knew the commander had been serious. He had threatened many things to the explosive engineer, but never this. This was real. 

With a heavy vent, Wheeljack left his scorched lab and walked slowly back to his quarters to pack the few things he kept there, then sat down on his bare bunk and waited for the command. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

In his office, the commander fumed. No base would take Wheeljack. His reputation preceded him. No one wanted a mech on their base who was likely to cause more damage than the Decepticons did. 

The commander was stuck. Then a ping came in over a long-distance comm. 

“This is Redlight, commander of Base SE23-EW7.”

::Commander Redlight? My designation is Notecard. I’m Sentinel Prime's personal assistant.::

Redlight immediately straightened, even though this was an audio-only comm. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

::No pleasure talking to me, Redlight. I’m just a glorified secretary. However, it was brought to my attention that you're looking for a place to send a... troublesome mech.::

“I am. Wheeljack. Calls himself an engineer and inventor. Most of his... experiments end up as explosions. He costs more than he's worth, to be honest.”

::I see. I would like to offer a solution. Information on a base is being sent to your personal computer. Do you see it?::

Redlight turned and opened the inbox on his computer. A file popped up. “Yup. I do.”

::Send this Wheeljack fellow there. Sentinel has designated it the unofficial base of trouble mechs. We will not be bothered by him there.::

“Thank you. I appreciate this.” Redlight was grinning as he sat back in his chair. 

::Of course. Sentinel Prime wishes to complete this war quickly, and our progress in completing that goal is hindered by mechs such as this. Or so Sentinel believes.:: There was a dry, humorless laugh. ::I believe he is right on most counts – though not all.::

Redlight nodded slowly. “Of course. When can I send him off?”

::Whenever you can get a shuttle ready.::

“Already have one.”

::Then say goodbye to Wheeljack.::

“Sounds good. Thank you, Notecard.”

::You are welcome, Redlight.::

The base commander smirked as the line was cut. Time to get rid of the engineer. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Wheeljack stared out the viewscreen of the shuttle at the small moon they were approaching. The base was a tiny thing, barely more than a crater on the surface. 

Or perhaps it was underground, and the “crater” was simply a shuttle landing pad?

This theory was confirmed when the shuttle touched down and Wheeljack walked out to see a medium sized, black and white, Praxian-framed mech waiting for him. The inventor flashed his helm fins in greeting as he ducked off the ship and strode forward. 

“Hello!” he said cheerfully, the thin atmosphere making his voice sound strange. 

“Hello. My name is Prowl, commander of this base. You are...?”

Wheeljack's optics widened. “They didn't tell you?”

Prowl's doorwings flicked. Annoyed. He was annoyed. “They tell me nothing other than I will soon have another soldier under my command. So. Designation and function, if you please.”

The engineer drooped slightly, bladed “wings” dipping. “Wheeljack, engineer and inventor. But I have to warn you. I... make things explode a lot.”

“Oh, no doubt. That is the reason you are here, isn't it? We all cause trouble here. Welcome to Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E.”

“Or ya can call 't th' Pit, like all'a us do!” a cheery voice practically sang. Prowl frowned slightly. 

“Jazz. Aren't you supposed to be on patrol?”

“Finished the route,” a tiny silver mech said as he strutted up to the black and white. “Who's this?”

“Wheeljack. And before you ask, explosion-prone.”

Jazz cycled some air through his vocalizer in an appreciative whistle. “Nice. Heh. Prowler's here 'cause he didn' follow orders 'n saved a bunch 'a mechs. Ah'm here 'cause Ah went a tiny bit...”

“Crazy? Insane? You had a few screws loose?”

Jazz shot a cross look at the black and white, which quickly grew into a wide smile. “Yup. Certifiably bonkers. But don' worry. Ah'm better now.”

Wheeljack tilted his helm sideways, fins flashing happily. “Okay. Hi, Jazz. Glad you're better.”

Jazz snickered, and Prowl's lips twitched upwards in the smallest of smirks. 

“Welcome to the Pit, Wheeljack.”

“Thanks for having me.”


	5. Bumblebee

Bumblebee was often underestimated. His carefree nature and small stature led people to believe he was nothing more than a youngling playing at war. The truth was far from that, though. The yellow minibot was often thought to be the youngest mech on the base. The truth? He was most likely the oldest, or as least very close to it. 

Bumblebee was a spy. A damn good one. Had been long before the war. But his last mission had been in progress when the war had started, and most of his superiors had either died or gone to the Decepticons. He couldn't reveal his identity lest he risk associating himself with the likes of them. Or rather, one in particular: Shockwave. The purple mech had been the captain of the Tarnian Special Operations Task Division of the Tarnian Enforcers. Bumblebee had been one of his best operatives. 

That last mission had been to ferret out a gang of energon smugglers. Tarn had fallen while he had been out of the city, tracking a trader. Having always been of a more Autobot mindset, the spy had signed up without ever going back. He hadn't even removed his disguise.

That was Bumblebee's greatest secret: he wasn't even a minibot. His frame had been reformatted to suit the mission, then repainted before he joined up with the Autobots. He had once been just an average mech. 

Not that he was anymore. He was stuck in this frame – he actually quite enjoyed it. But even if he hadn't, the medic who had originally reformatted him was dead. And anyways, it was easier to simply keep the identity he had forged for the case than remake a new one. He definitely couldn't use his original name and frame. That was still associated with Tarn and Shockwave. 

So Bumblebee he was, and Bumblebee he was going to stay. Minibot, Autobot, and spy. 

The yellow minibot had also known that Shockwave was aware of his miniaturized nature, and so had requested an assignment on a far base – which was why he was at Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. 

As far as Bumblebee was able to figure, he was one of the few, if not the only, who had actually wanted to come here. If anyone asked why he had been sent, he would smile ruefully and say, “It's a long story,” and leave it at that. Not many pressed further. 

The fact that he had chosen to come, though, had a few benefits. For one, he had known what he was getting into (even though he had come way back when it had only been minibots and Dinobots on base). 

He had been there from the beginning. He watched as it changed. He watched as the mechs stationed there became more of a family than simple teammates. He watched relationships grow and flourish. He watched as more and more mechs were sent to this out of the way moon base – Red Alert and Inferno, then Hoist and Grapple, a couple more minibots, Prowl, Ratchet, Jazz, Wheeljack... They all came, and Bumblebee watched them all. 

He was a spy, after all. Spies watched, observed, learned. They acted like average mechs, but were anything but. 

It took less than two groons after his arrival for Jazz to figure him out, though. A testament to the abilities of the saboteur, especially considering the fact that the first groon he had been on the moon, he had been practically unresponsive and very AI-ish. 

“Ah know wha'cha are, Bee,” he had said cheerily as he sat down next to the minibot in the commissary one orn, as though he were commenting on the weather, or Grimlock's latest statement that “him Grimlock king.”

Bumblebee just looked at the silver mech, a small smile on his face. “Yeah? What do you know?” he asked, completely relaxed and at ease. 

The saboteur smiled back, lifting his energon in a silent toast. “Ya're a spy, my mech. A good one. Had a hard time seein' 't, myself. How'd ya end up out here?”

The yellow minibot's smile faltered. For less than a klik, it became worried, before returning to its genuine warmth. “What gives you that idea?”

Jazz shrugged. “Ah jus' know. Trait o' a good saboteur, y'know? Knowin' when another's 'round. Helps keep th' spark pulsin'.”

“Yes, it does,” Bumblebee murmured in agreement, glancing around. His wariness was for naught, though. No one was paying the two any attention. Both Jazz and the secret spy were among the more friendly mechs stationed there, and it was not odd to see them conversing together. 

“Yup.” There was silence for a moment, before Jazz grinned and lifted his energon again. “Well, Bee, Ah trust ya. If ya don' wanna talk, Ah won' make ya, 's long's ya don' prove t' be a threat. If ya ever do wanna talk, Ah've got some'a th' best audials 'round, and one'a th' quietest vocalizers, 'spite o' what some'd tell ya.”

“I know. I pulled your file. You were one of the best.”

“Still am, Bee Bot. Jus' got lost fer a little while.”

The minibot cocked his helm to the side. “Prowl really means something to you, doesn't he?”

Jazz's grin widened. “What, my firs' groon here didn' give 't 'way?” His visor flashed in a wink as he stood. A nod was sent in Bumblebee's direction, and the saboteur left the Rec Room. 

The yellow minibot watched him go, a slight smile on his face. He had never doubted his decision in coming here. But perhaps it had never really been his decision, he mused. Perhaps it had been a Primus-sent occurrence. Never had Bumblebee had someone he could trust, yet his spark was screaming at him that Jazz was someone he could tell everything to, then never have to worry about it being repeated, or about being judged or hated or pushed away. 

He felt that way about almost everyone here, now that he thought about it. His “group,” the minibots, stuck together. No matter the chances, they would stick up for each other. That had been proven to Bumblebee when Grimlock and Huffer had gotten into an argument. It had led to blows, and the giant t-rex had found himself falling under a swarm of minibots. 

Or Prowl. Ever since he had come, he had been nothing but supportive of everyone. In the one Decepticon attack, Prowl had directed everyone with a firm, calm voice and easy to follow orders, and had won the battle in a matter of breems. He had won over those not already convinced that orn. 

Ratchet, the harsh medic. He had demanded respect immediately upon his arrival. Many thought that respect had to be earned, and so tested the medic – who proved to be worthy of that respect. Anyone who still doubted him learned to at least respect his wrench and throwing arm. 

Jazz, after he came and recovered, quickly became the link between the commanders and the troops, though compared to most bases, there was very little space between them. Jazz became the spark of the party almost immediately. He was loud, and fun, and always nice. Nobody hated him, even if not everybody liked him. Friend to all, he was, and he was content with that. He quickly gained the soldiers' trust and companionship. 

Wheeljack... Wheeljack was Wheeljack, plain and simple. The loveable, explode-able engineer. The regular explosions at least brought a bit of entertainment to the base on an ornly basis. He was kind to everyone, and as long as you were careful about what he had in his hands when you approached him, he could be quite good company.

And the others – the mechs who had been here for longer. Red Alert, who, despite his many false alarms and all-around paranoia, was genuinely concerned for everyone's safety. Inferno, the cheerful Security Enforcer, Red Alert's lover (though it was debated as to whether they were bondmates or not). Always open for a chat, though he was to be watched closely when there was a fire nearby. Hoist and Grapple, who had been sent out here long ago to fix the base up and make it suitably sized for more average sized mechs, and had never been called back. 

Everyone here... they were all close, all family, now. And Bumblebee was one of them. 

It was an odd feeling, he realized. Before the war, as a spy, his only relationships had been with people he didn't trust, whether they be his fellow agents or his contacts or even his targets. 

Smiling, the little yellow bot stood up and headed for the door. “Hey, Jazz!” he called, and he could see the silver saboteur at the end of the hallway stop and turn around, a wide grin on his face. 

Bumblebee ran up to the unofficial Second in Command of the base. “Yeah, Bee?”

“I... Wanna know how I got here?”

“Sure would, Bee Bot. Lead th' way.”

With a grin, Bumblebee started walking, Jazz, one of his family, at his side. “It all started a long time ago, before the war, when I lived in Tarn...”


	6. The Dinobots

“Y'know, Ah was jus' thinkin', how'd th' Dinos get here? Ah've pulled all th' records, but... 's like one orn, ya'd never heard of 'em, th' next, they're trampl'in ev'ryone 'n' ev'rthin'.”

“I also wonder,” Prowl said as he sat down next to his bondmate, surprising Bumblebee and Jazz. The base commander did not often stay to drink his ration in the Rec Room. He usually got it then retreated back to his office. “Jazz is correct. There are no files on why the Dinobots were sent here.”

“Because, at the time, nobody really cared about files,” Bumblebee said from his seat across from Jazz. “It was just us minibots here, when the Dinos came. And we weren't really all that meticulous with the records.”

Prowl nodded. “There are very few records of what went on before Sentinel Prime decided to use this base to get rid of his trouble mechs.”

“Makes sense. Like I said, we didn't really care much for reports and records.” 

Prowl nodded and took a drink of his energon, while Jazz leaned forward. “Still don't 'splain why th' Dinos' got sent.”

“Jazz, does it really have to be explained to you?” Prowl asked as he set his energon down. “I would think it obvious.”

“Actually...”

Prowl raised an optic ridge and looked at the little yellow minibot. “It is not obvious?”

“No, not really. Well, sort of, but not entirely. The Dinobots were really young. Created by some scientist back on Cybertron at the start of the war. He wanted good frontliners. Made their alt modes similar to some kinds of alien life forms. Gave them lots of armor, and rather small processors. He wanted to be able to control them.”

“But 't didn' work that way, did 't?”

“Nope,” Bumblebee agreed, looking thoughtful. “Grimlock... Well, he fancied himself a leader. And while he's not the most peaceful mech, he is rather good at it. He has the right spark. But he wouldn't take orders from someone he didn't respect.”

Prowl nodded. “Yes. I can testify to that.”

Bumblebee smiled. “Yes. I am glad the 'Cons attacked when they did. You got his attention, and respect, when you beat them off. But they were sent here. I don't know why, especially because it was only us minibots here at the time, but... it all worked out in the end.”

“Yes, it did.”


	7. The Aerialbots

“Air Raid! Get down! Fireflight, stop poking him! Slingshot, put the blaster away! Skydive – Fireflight, find Skydive, please! And do not forget what you're doing on the way! Air Raid, I was serious! Get down – we aren't allowed in the rafters! And Slingshot! What did I say about the blaster?”

The three Aerialbots in the room froze when their leader's voice cut through the already loud chatter of the other Autobots present. Fireflight, after a hesitant moment, slid sideways out of the room and headed off to find his brother. Slingshot slowly put his blaster back into subspace, and the mech he'd been aiming at heaved a heavy gust of air through his vents. Air Raid slowly dropped from the ceiling, where he had been clinging to the rafters and laughing at the mechs sneering up at him. 

The two Aerialbots still in the room moved toward their leader. Silverbolt, once assured that they would follow, turned and walked down the hall. The click of their thrusters on the floor accompanied him. He could feel their dejection though the gestalt bond, but the rebellious nature the two mechs that made up the left side of Superion was boiling below the surface. 

Silverbolt knew they were still young. They were still younglings at spark. All of them, even himself. But they had been upgraded with more powerful bodies and adult processors. His team should know better! 

And really, they should. He had told them again and again, they needed to behave! The punishments they got (never from him – they wanted his approval, and when they got disapproval instead... that was punishment enough) coincided with their misbehavior, yet they never seemed to notice. Or at least didn't care. Not even when they were finally transferred, when their commanders finally got tired of their trouble and decided they could hand it off to someone else. 

“Silverbolt? You needed me?” Skydive called as he led – or practically dragged, if you want to get specific – Fireflight down the hall. 

“Yes. The commander transferred us again.”

There was a moment of silence, before Air Raid let out a quiet snort. “Right. Whelp. Let's go get packed up.”

Silverbolt shook his helm. “This isn't like the other times. This is... I looked up the base. It's on virtually no records other than transfer orders. It's in an empty sector. Nothing goes on there.”

“Well, we'll be transferred out soon enough,” Slingshot said as he walked off. “C'mon, guys.”

Silverbolt stared. “It's... It's not like that...”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Welcome to Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E,” the black and white Praxian said as the five jets practically spilled from the shuttle. Being cramped in a tiny metal box while floating through space was not something that agreed with most fliers. “Introduce yourselves, please.”

The jets shared a glance before Air Raid stepped forward. “I'm Air Raid, but... Didn't they send you our files?”

The graceful doorwings twitched, and a flicker of frustration passed over the impassive faceplates. “They transfer them from the shuttle once you are here. We are a long distance away from the nearest base, and they are only willing to transmit very little. They only tell me when someone is coming, and, in your case, that there were five of you. I was not even told that you were fliers.”

Silverbolt and Skydive, the only two who had bothered to look up their new assignment, were not surprised as their brothers were. This was the base of outcasts, misfits, and trouble-makers, and someone had finally decided that the gestalt was more trouble than they were worth to keep around. 

The largest jet of the bunch stepped forward, placing his hand on Air Raid and pulling the brash Aerialbot back. “Commander, sir. My name is Silverbolt. I’m the leader of the Aerialbots. Those are Fireflight, Skydive, Slingshot, and Air Raid, who has already introduced himself to you.”

“Welcome, Aerialbots. My designation is-”

“Prowler! Ya didn' tell me we'd be gettin' new mechs t'day!”

The Praxian's doorwings stiffened and a kind of icy anger entered his optics. “-Prowl. My designation is Prowl, and Jazz, I have told you that sixteen times this orn.”

“Yup. Ah know. But Ah like callin' ya Prowler. Welcome, mechs, t' th' Pit,” Jazz said as he bowed elaborately, sweeping his legs and arms out. 

Air Raid and Skydive glanced at each other, and wicked grins spread over their faceplates. “I think we're going to like it here,” Air Raid said, turning to Jazz. The silver bot just grinned back, while Prowl's face and palm met in intimate embrace. 

“Primus help us.”


	8. Red Alert & Inferno

“RED ALERT! RED ALERT! INTRUDER! INTRUDER!”

The shouts echoed through the base, startling all the mechs in the Rec Room, save for one. 

Inferno, hidden away in his little corner booth, nursing a cube of (contraband) high grade, groaned and opened a link along their spark-bond as he subspaced the cube and stood. 

~Red Alert, what is it now?~

~Traitors! Traitors, Inferno! That mech, Cavalier, his comings and goings are quite suspicious! He is constantly sneaking around-~

~Red, Cavalier is a messenger. A courier. He's supposed to be running around at all joors of the orn.~

~But he's suspicious! His runs haven't been authorized!~

~Authorized by who, Red?~

~... Me.~

Inferno cycled a heavy gust of air through his vents as he continued on. ~Red, you aren't high enough ranked to demand verification for every courier run. I’m sorry.~

The Lamborghini, shut away in the Security Center, stuttered. ~I- I- It's- but- Inferno!~

By that time, the firetruck was at the door. ~Let me in, Red. Don't worry, I’m all alone. Let me in.~

After a long moment and many scans, the Security mech opened the triple-locked door, allowing the massive, red mech in. 

“Inferno, I don't know how much longer I can last here,” the smaller mech said as soon as the door closed. 

“Red, we've been transferred twenty times this vorn alone.”

“I know, Inferno! But everywhere is exactly the same! No one listens! It's all, Red Alert, hah, that paranoid mech who sees ghosts around every corner and Decepticon spies in every nook and cranny! 'Ferno, I know that a lot of my... ideas are slightly ludicrous in most mechs optics, but they are viable possibilities!”

“I know, Red. C'mere.” The larger mech pulled his smaller compatriot into his arms, holding the red and white mech close. “The problem is, there's nowhere else to go. Everyone's heard of us. The paranoid security guy, and his friend, the one who sets fires,” Inferno growled bitterly. 

“But it's true. That's who we are.”

A wry snort came from the firetruck. “Yeah, but... Like you said, Red, they don't listen, but they have all heard..”

“I wish some of them did. And that they didn't.”

“So do I.”

Then Red Alert blinked and sat up, sitting comfortably within the circle of Inferno's arms. “Actually,” he murmured, “there might be. A place we can go, I mean.”

“Hmm?”

The Security mech nodded slowly, enthusiasm growing steadily. “Yes... I heard of it a while ago... Sentinel Prime used it as a place to send the mechs he didn't want to deal with anymore. It's just a tiny little base, out on a moon... way out of Decepticon routes, out of everything, really...”

“That doesn't sound like what we're looking for.”

“But don't you see, Inferno? The mechs that've been sent there! Some of them have glitches! I remember one of them... vorns ago. Remember that scandal with the junior tactician who disregarded his commander's orders, ran out to the battlefield, and saved his contingent?”

Inferno tilted his helm to the side, thinking back. “Vaguely. He just sorta disappeared after that.”

“Yes. Exactly! Sentinel Prime sent him away! To the base I was talking about! He had a glitch, Inferno! Not like mine, but... He had a glitch! And so have a few of the other mechs who've been sent there, before and after him.”

Inferno regarded his smaller companion. “If you're sure, Red. I’m happy wherever, as long as I’m with you.”

“Hopeless romantic.”

“That's why you love me.”

“Oh, mute it.”

There was a long pause in which the two bondmates basked in each other's presence. Then Inferno spoke up again. “Red?”

“Hm?”

“How... how do we get there?” A decidedly wicked grin spread over the Security mech's face, and Inferno leaned back. “Red? I ain't liking that look...”

Red Alert's grin just got wider.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“RED ALERT! RED ALERT! COMMANDER! REPORT TO THE SECURITY CENTER!”

The shouts no longer heralded surprised curses from startled mechs. They had become almost normal to hear around the base. Mechs would simply shake their helms, chuckle something about “that crazy Red Alert,” and get on with their lives and duties. 

This time, though, Inferno knew it was different. He hid a grin behind his energon cube and stood, faking an exasperated vent as he strode from the room. 

~All set, Red?~

~Of course, my darling Inferno,~ the Security mech practically purred, and Inferno twitched. 

~Red...~

~Heh.~

~Seriously. It don't suit you.~

Inferno got the sense that the Security mech was mentally rolling his optics at his bondmate. 

As the door to the Security Center slid open, though, not a trace of their playful banter could be seen by the other mechs present. The Commander, the base's Security Director, and the Communications Specialist. Red Alert was doing a brilliant job playing out one of his fritzes in front of the main bank of monitors. 

Inferno hid his smile as he walked in. To anyone who was familiar with Red Alert, the performance would have been obvious. He wasn't twitchy enough, for one thing. For another, his horns were sparking, but the electricity was a blue so light it was almost white, not the dangerous, darker blue that crackled along his armor during his real fits. Red wasn't sitting at one of the side monitors, with his back against the wall, where he could see the door. He didn't have the cameras cycling normally. His monitor was set up strangely. 

Primus, how did these mechs miss it? Inferno wondered. 

~All the same,~ Red Alert whispered over their bond, touch familiar and welcome in the firetruck's spark, ~I'm glad they don't recognize it as the fake it is, or else we would never be able to pull this off.~

~I feel the same... my darling Red Alert.~

~Mute. It.~

~Love ya.~

~Love you too,~ the Security mech reluctantly rumbled in return. 

Their attention returned to the room, as well as the other mechs in it, when the Commander spoke. “Red Alert, what is it now? And why are you here, Inferno?”

Before Inferno could answer, the Lamborghini spoke. “He's here because it involves him. It's a Decepticon plot, I tell you! They're trying to get rid of us so they'll be able to attack you all!”

“Wha... Trying to get rid of you? What's going on?”

Red Alert growled as he swung his chair to the side and gestured at the screen. “That is 'going on'. Transfer orders!”

“What?” the Commander breathed as the two mechs beside him stiffened. 

“Transfer orders for me and Inferno to some little pit-like base out in the middle of nowhere! A Decepticon plot, I tell you! Proper action must be taken!”

But the Commander wasn't listening to Red Alert. He was examining the orders and discussing this development with his two subcommanders

~Care to listen in?~ Red Alert asked his bondmate even as he piggybacked off their signal. 

~Of course!~ Why do you even bother asking?~

A mental grin was pushed in his direction, then a slew of words, not from his bondmate, flooded their link. 

::- looks genuine enough. Satellite bouncer tags all show up correct, and it's authorized by some important people...:: That was the Communications Specialist, and his tone suggested that he didn't believe it, even though all the evidence was perfect, without any of the tags that would mark it as suspicious. 

::What I’m wondering is why?:: the Security Director asked, and his frown was clear in his voice. 

::Does it matter? It looks real, and to be honest, I just want to be rid of them. No more “red alerts,” no more random fires...::

~I feel so loved,~ Inferno commented to his bondmate, and Red Alert had to set off a fresh round of sparks and twitches as he hid his laughter. 

It wasn't really that funny, but they both knew they were not wanted, and secure enough in the knowledge that they would always have each other. It struck a chord, one that meant either keening induced by emotional pain, or the tense, not-really-because-it's-funny laughter. 

The laughter was the less painful option, so they both took it. 

::Is the base legitimate?::

::It is,:: the Security Director said, and a datafile was sent along the comm link. ::Just looked it up. Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. Looks like it's Sentinel Prime's base of misfit soldiers.::

::This... This is a gift from Primus,:: the Commander said, slightly dazed. His subordinates' mental chuckles echoed over the link.

A moment after that, someone finally spoke out loud.

“I don't know, Red, all the tags are checking out. It looks real,” the Communications Specialist said, turning to face the sparking Security mech.

Red Alert twitched. “Of course! The Decepticons are good! The point is that it looks real! It isn't! Why would anyone actually try to transfer us out?”

There was an awkward silence as the bondmates faced down the three officers. 

Finally, it was broken by the Commander. “I... do not know, Red Alert. But I do know that I trust my Communications Specialist. He was promoted for his skill, after all.”

“Or because his superiors were killed,” Red Alert muttered, horns sparking again, but the Commander continued as if he hadn't heard. 

“I'm afraid we're going to have to, ah, ship you out. The orders are that you leave next orn. Be ready in the docking station by then.”

Red Alert's horns sparked even more furiously, and Inferno walked over and rested a steadying hand on the mech's shoulder. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

“Good. I will see you next orn.”

The door had scarcely closed behind the three mechs before Red Alert broke out in frame-rattling snickers, the sparks on his horns already gone. “They fell for it! They completely fell for it!”

“I've gotta say, Red, I’m impressed. How'd ya do it?”

“I just copied all the location and tagging information from another transfer order and replaced the actual message with ours. If they really looked closely, they would have seen it, but I was counting on them wanting to get rid of us and not looking too close.”

“A gift from Primus indeed,” Inferno murmured as he smiled down at his bondmate. “Well, I’m gonna go pack up our stuff. Anything hidden away you want me to get?”

“Just my stash of extra cameras. Who knows what the security's like in that base!”

“As you wish, my lovely bondmate.”

“Romantic.”

“You love me anyways.”

“Oh, mute it.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“And that's how we got here,” Inferno said happily as he downed another deep drink of high-grade.

“You're saying that your transfer orders were... well, fake? And made by yourselves?” Jazz asked, grinning, as he leaned forward, his own cube of high-grade in his hand.

“Made by Red, but yup. We wanted somewhere we could fit in. The only place that fit those specifications was here!”

There were a few chuckles around the table as Inferno leaned back, draining his cube as he did so.

“I will admit,” Wheeljack said from where he sat smirking next to Ratchet, “I'm impressed. I know you aren't the only one who kinda sorta maybe wanted to be here, but... that was pretty smart... However, I have failed to observe you displaying any of the pyromaniac tendencies you mentioned.”

Inferno shrugged. “I know how to hide it, and being the as close as I am to Red... Well, he does have direct access to all the security footage... And he can neglect to mention a couple things for the sake of my sanity.”

“No, no, I wasn't implying... Uh... Ratchet, don't kill me, but Inferno, would you like to... work on something with me-- OW! Ratchet!”


	9. Mirage

Playing the part of a ghost is hardly as fun as they make it out to be, Mirage though to himself as he walked, invisible, down the hall. 

It wasn't like he liked being invisible. It required much more thought and concentration that one would think. For one, you couldn't really see yourself. Sure, you could make out a sort of blurry outline, but you still had to pay a lot of attention to where you were, unless you planned on running into things. 

It surprised Mirage how many people seemed to think that invisibility was the same thing as intangibility. They assumed that if they couldn't see him, they wouldn't be able to feel him either. It was frustrating.

And people were constantly staring at him when he was visible. Wondering why they could see him, probably. 

It was downright annoying. 

It had gotten so bad, Mirage now spent most of his time invisible. It was strange... When he had lived in the Towers, after he had learned to control the ability, he had spent so little time invisible. Living in the Towers was all about seeing and being seen, so disappearing was something most other nobles looked down on. But now, here, where all he wanted was to be somewhere else and he was constantly using his electro-disrupter, it was getting easier. 

Sure, it still required concentration, and was still, on occasion, a bit disconcerting to not see his own frame, but it was becoming more familiar with each passing orn. 

Sometimes he wondered if he'd eventually just fade away. Get stuck on invisible and never be seen again. 

Sometimes, he wished that would happen. 

His commanders had no reason to dislike him. He always did his job, and did it well. Anyone he was sent to kill was either never seen again or found dead, lying in a puddle of their own energon. Anything he was sent to receive always made it back to base, complete and intact. Of course, he often wandered around the base invisible, but they saw no problem with that. His free time was his, and as long as he wasn't killing other mechs, stealing things, leaking information, or starting fights, and always showed up to duty on time, they didn't care what he did.

It was the other mechs who hated him. They resented him for his perfect record. Resented that he could wander the base unseen, possibly spying on them all every day. Resented that he was a noble, and not one of them. 

When he had first joined, Mirage would have gladly made friends with any of these mechs. He had been friends with plenty of his servants in the Towers, as much as that had been looked down on. He had unique opportunities with his invisibility. When he was a youngling, he couldn't control it, and had had ample opportunities to sneak through his home. He had spend a lot of time in the servants' quarters. They were the only ones who hadn't made fun of his disappearing. 

He understood later that a few of them, especially the servant younglings, didn't tease him only because they were afraid of retribution, but he had made friends all the same.

It was the soldiers' preconceptions that isolated the spy. Their prejudice. Not his.

He hated it. But the Autobot cause was one he believed in, and so kept at it. 

Until the other soldiers at his base decided they had had enough of the aloof noble, and that they wanted him gone. So they plotted, snuck, and decided. 

A fight in the hallway, out of range of the cameras. Dented armor and deep scratches on the instigators, but with Mirage barely injured. Blame all the injuries on him. 

It worked perfectly. Mirage was blamed for the fight and injuries, never mind that his victims numbered twelve, and they were all larger than him. 

But then something unexpected. His attackers had hoped he would be removed from the Autobots. Or perhaps locked away. 

They hadn't anticipated him being transferred. 

“Autobot Mirage, in light of your past and your perfect record, the council has decided to transfer you as punishment for your misdemeanor. You leave next orn. Please pack your things.”

“Yes, sirs,” had been the quiet response, and the white and blue noble had walked quietly from the room. His attackers watched eagerly from down the hall, but the noble put all his Towers training to use and showed nothing. 

He wasn't sure what to think about this. Once he had been convicted, he had resigned himself to being imprisoned for a long time or being banished from the Autobots. Rules about infighting were strict, here. Stricter than most bases. This was preferable to either of those options. 

However... being transferred was an odd idea. This had been his home base since the start of the war, and though he had stayed at other bases for short periods of time during some of his missions, this had always been as much of a home as he had since the Towers had fallen. 

Venting heavily, he entered his quarters and began packing what few belongings he had.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Welcome to Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E, Autobot...?” the black and white Praxian said as the blue and white noble strode off of the ship.

“Mirage. They didn't tell you?”

The black and white gave a little half-frown. “They never do. Welcome, Autobot Mirage. I am Prowl, the base commander.”

“Hey!” a voice called from somewhere on the other side of the landing pad, and Mirage whipped his helm around. A small silver mech had just pushed himself off the wall and was walking towards them. “Ah know you! Yer that noble, th' one who turns invisible!”

Mirage frowned. “Indeed I am. And you are?”

“Name's Jazz. Special Operations.”

“Mirage.”

“Nice t' meet ya!” the silver saboteur said with a smile. Mirage waited for the inevitable “can you really turn invisible?” question, but it never came. 

Instead, Prowl spoke. “There are some rules unique to our base that I must tell you before I show you around. One, there are only four mechs on base who will know why you were sent here and have access to your file. Myself, Jazz, Ratchet, our Medical Officer, and Red Alert, our Security Director. Anyone else, if you so desire, you can tell to mind their own business. I do not know how much you are aware of, but we have all been sent here for a reason. If you wish to keep that reason to yourself, it is your right. 

“Two, always listen to the Medic.” Jazz interrupted with a snicker, and Prowl shot a glare at him. “Ratchet has good aim, and isn't afraid to use it. Three, always comply with Red Alert. He... Well, it is easier for all involved if you just go along with him. 

“Four, Storage Room Beta-13 is off limits to everyone.”

“Jus' don',” Jazz interjected with a grin. “'S not worth th' trauma. Trust meh.”

Mirage cocked an optic ridge, but said nothing. 

“Five... You can choose your profession. I know in the rest of the army, it is often chosen for you based on your skills, but we see so little action here, and we have virtually no function in the army, so what you want to do is up to you. Of course, everyone still goes on patrols, and everyone, even me, has monitor duty occasionally, but your primary function is up to you.”

Mirage nodded. “I was a spy before, and I believe I would like to do something like that. It suits my abilities, and I have already been trained. If there is anything available.”

“There is not much, I will admit, but you can keep that as your registered function. I know Jazz will enjoy having a fellow Special Operations operative around.”

“That Ah will, mech. By th' way, welcome t' th' Pit,” he said with a grin. 

“Happy to be here,” the former noble responded, returning the smile.


	10. Hound

HOUND

Hound didn't like people. He didn't like being around them, didn't like the way they sounded, didn't like the way they smelled, didn't like the way they thought. They were too... Well, they would use the word “sophisticated,” but Hound thought it to be the opposite. 

The green mech had been a scout and tracker his entire life. He had been sparked by the groundskeeper of a wildlife reserve and a tracker in the employ of the Nobles. He had been raised in the reserve, around the half-tamed petro-hounds and cybercats, and had preferred mechanimals over other younglings as his playmates. 

He, like his sire and carrier, learned how to survive out in the wild, where energon was found in wellsprings or taken from the lines of mechanimals. 

When the war broke out, his little family was mostly unaffected. Until his sire had gone to the Towers, and the Towers had been bombed. Hound's carrier tried to hold on for his sake, but soon faded and followed his bonded to the Well. 

Hound was left alone on the reserve. He was a mech now, no longer a youngling or mechling, and knew he could survive. He also knew he wanted no place in the War.

So he disappeared. Packed what few belongings he had and vanished into the wilds to survive and live on his own. 

He stayed there, alone save for the three petro-hounds that had followed him, watching the war from a distance, for vorns. He was content out there, surviving off the land with is little pack. He would have been happy if the war had never found him, if he had been able to live out his life in the wilderness of Cybertron. 

But like all bad things, war spreads and infects all it touches. 

It was a bad day already. It had rained, though not the acid stuff the Decepticons had introduced into the Southern hemisphere. Then the moosebot Hound had been tracking with his petro-hounds had wandered into Decepticon territory. 

Hound vented as he stared at the moosebot's tracks. 

“Well, boys, looks like we're going hungry tonight. Sorry,” he murmured to the canines at his feet. They whined and butted their helms against his legs. It wouldn't be the first time they had gone without energon because of a failed hunt, but it was never pleasant. 

They turned and headed back to their current home, a small cave at the base of the mountains. 

They never made it. 

Three quarters of the way there, they found Autobots. 

Five of them, all large and sturdily build, all different colors. One dark gray, one a pale gray-blue, one a mottled brown-rust-red, one a dark red, and the last a dusty green. They were scouting around, spread out in a long line. Distant enough from each other that they didn't cover the same ground, but close enough to call for help if it was needed. 

And close enough together that sneaking through the line wouldn't be possible, even with his holograms. He'd have to go around. 

Letting out a whine eerily similar to those his hounds made, he started off to the right. 

It was a long walk. Two bots could put a lot of space in between them and still be able to sense everything in between. Five bots could span a massive distance if they didn't have to focus on anything other than searching. 

Add to that the fact that the line was always moving, and Hound had an even harder time of it. 

Eventually, though, he rounded the edge of the line and started moving toward the cave.

Which was when he stumbled upon a half-deactivated mech. 

He was mostly black, with highlights of red and white. He had rocket launchers on each shoulder, but, as this was wartime, that was not uncommon. 

He also had a gaping gash through his chassis plating. It was oozing energon. Slowly, but still leaking, even though Hound could tell the wound was old. 

The green mech quickly crouched down next to the downed scout, running his scanners over and through the mech. 

“Slag,” he murmured when the results pinged back. The mech's energy reserves were barely above three percent. Much, much too low. Fishing an old cube filled with energon from a moosebot he and his petro-hounds had taken three orns ago, he lifted the mech's helm slightly. After a slight hesitation, he poured the energon into the other mech's mouth, then settled back a bit to keep watch. 

This was obviously what – or who – the scouts were looking for, but they were heading in the wrong way. And Hound, in good conscience, couldn't just leave this mech to die. 

Frowning, he whistled his petro-hounds over and gave the simple command of “fetch,” specifying the mechs they had passed with a sweep of his hand. The three canines whined, then slunk off rather reluctantly to do as they had been told as Hound stayed kneeling over the black mech. 

It was not long before the dogs came prancing back to him, one of them with a blaster clutched in its jaws, followed by an angry mech. It was the brown-rust-red one. 

As soon as he saw Hound cradling the black mech's helm in his lap, his fury was forgotten as he rushed to the two mechs. 

“Oh, Primus! Trailbreaker, what happened to you?” he cried, then muttered as he skidded to a stop. 

Only then did he remember to activate his comm link. “Guys! I’ve... Trailbreaker's been found,” he corrected himself as he glanced at Hound. The green tracker simply rolled his optics and scooted back, gently lowering Trailbreaker's helm. The reddish mech smiled at him. 

“Thank you, so much! We've been searching for him for an orn now, and we were starting to think... But that doesn't matter. My name's Starset, Autobot tracker and our team second. Trailbreaker's our unit leader. What's your name?”

Hound tilted his helm. “Doesn't matter. No one uses it anyways.” The green tracker gestured to the three petro-hounds now sitting happily at his sides. 

“Doesn't... Doesn't that get lonely?”

The green mech smiled. “Nope. And I don't have to shoot anyone, ever, so...”

Starset glanced down. “Right.”

There was an awkward silence, broken only by the hurried approach of the other scouts. They bustled around the prone mech, looking very busy, though Hound couldn't tell what, exactly, they thought they were doing. 

Hound slipped away, followed by his silent canines. Two breems later, when Starset looked up to thank him again, he was gone. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Hound forgot about the incident and went on with his life as soon as he left the little gathering. It was how he lived. Orn to orn, without lingering in the past. 

So ten orns later, while he was out hunting, he didn't expect to run across anyone. 

“Hey,” the black mech said, shifting awkwardly on his pedes. Hound tilted his helm to the side and watched warily. Trailbreaker simply stood, watching the green mech through a dark blue visor. 

“Hello,” Hound finally said after a long moment, still tense and wary. 

“They told me a mech in the wild saved my spark,” the larger mech said, shifting his gaze down. 

“I did, I suppose. No thanks necessary.”

Trailbreaker frowned. “What do you mean? You saved my spark.”

“So? I'd do it for anyone,” Hound said, his own expression copying Trailbreaker's. “It was nothing personal. At all.”

Trailbreaker huffed a quiet laugh. “I know. You had no idea who I was. But I wanted to say thanks. It's... It's rare to find someone who'll just help like that, especially in these orns.”

“Yeah, well, forget it. It's over and done,” Hound snapped, and turned away. 

“Wait-” Trailbreaker called, but the green loner did not pause. The black mech huffed in frustration and activated his shield generators. Purplish light flared in front of the tracker, and Hound fell back with a curse as he stepped into it. 

Trailbreaker watched as he stood up and looked around. The purple shield was a bubble around the both of them. “What do you want?”

“For you to actually listen. I just wanted to say thank you...” Trailbreaker trailed off. “What is it you're afraid of?” he asked after a moment of staring at the green mech. 

Hound froze. “Nothing. I’m not scared.”

“Then why-”

The green tracker snarled and lunged forward, pushing up against the black scout. His sharp fingers hovered over the main lines in Trailbreaker's neck. “I don't want you near me! You bring war! I was fine, out of it, when I was alone, but you insist on dragging it deeper and deeper into the wild! I won't have anywhere to go if... if...”

The black Autobot stared. “You just want peace.” Hound nodded slowly, and Trailbreaker stepped back, the force field disappearing. “Then I apologize. I hope nothing bad comes of my... visit.”

The wild mech just shook his helm. “You were already out here. What's done is done. I... You're welcome.”

Trailbreaker smiled as he kept moving backwards. “Yes. Thank you. Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime. After...”

He didn't say “after the war.” It's end was not in sight yet.

Hound nodded and started on his way. Trailbreaker turned and headed back to his base, doing his best to push the green mech out of his processor. It would be best to forget. 

 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

An alarm was going off. It was a usual occurrence. It was the alarm that said someone was at the entrance to the base, and people were constantly coming and going. 

This time was a bit different, though. 

A haggard mech, armor torn and stained with rust and ash, more gray than green, with an unconscious petro-hound slung over his shoulders. The mech was exhausted, barely standing alone. His blue optics flickered dimly. 

Trailbreaker had been in the courtyard with his team mates when the mech had stumbled to the gate. The first glance simply dismissed him as another road-weary neutral traveler, come to join the Autobots. 

Then his processors, trained to track, to notice details, picked up a few things. The petro-hound was first. Then the remaining scraps of green paint. Then the fact that this mech was built for traversing the wilds, and very familiar at that. As much as he had tried to forget, there were some things that were burned into his spark. 

The black Autobot whipped his helm around fast enough to kink a tension wire in his neck. “You?” he whispered, blue visor glittering. 

“TB? Hey, what's up?” Starset said, then followed his gaze. “Another neutral? What's so... Oh!”

Trailbreaker wasn't listening, though. He had gotten up and was walking over to the three mechs – Hound and the two Autobots interrogating him. 

“Hey!” the black tracker said as he walked up, and Hound jerked his helm up.

A weak chuckle left the vocalizer of the once-green mech. “Trailbreaker.”

Nothing more was said between the two. Nothing needed to be. They understood. War had found Hound, and he had come to the one place he knew he had a friend. Trailbreaker vouched for him, and the green mech was taken to the med bay. 

Three orns later, he was wearing an Autobot brand and registered as an Autobot scout and tracker in Trailbreaker's team. 

The petro-hound was allowed to stay too, but it soon wandered off. Army life was not for animals. Hound didn't say anything when it left. He just smiled sadly whenever anyone asked where it had gone.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Trailbreaker vented as he looked at the orders. Hound had caused trouble. He was a nice mech, really. Friendly, got on with most of the other mechs, was always happy... but he had spent most of his life in the wild. He didn't understand many social rules. He acted like a petro-hound for the most part. 

For the other trackers, it was understandable. Acceptable, even. They enjoyed it; it was natural, easy. They all acted like that at some point or other. 

For the rest of the army, it was repulsive and primitive behavior. 

And so Hound was being transferred out. 

Trailbreaker was delivering the orders himself. 

The door before him had never looked so impenetrable and depressing. Another long vent, this one to steady himself, and he pinged for entrance. 

Hound granted it immediately, happy to see his friend. “Trailbreaker, nice to see you!”

“And you, as well,” the black Autobot said in greeting, smiling at the tracker. 

The green mech glanced at the datapad and smiled grimly. “They're moving me out.”

“Uh... Yes. How did you know?”

Hound shrugged. “Lots of things. But I know I don't fit here.”

Trailbreaker let out a dry laugh. “No. But...”

“No.” He shook his helm. “TB, it's fine. I knew this would be coming. I’m a scout. I’m supposed to be able to see up the trail a bit. Where am I being sent?”

Another long vent cycled its way through Trailbreaker's circulation system. “A little moon base, a long ways out. Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. Here,” he said as he handed over a datapad with information on the base.

Hound nodded and took the datapad, skimming over it before talking. “Okay. I’ll get packed up.”

Trailbreaker watched as the green mech stowed his few belongings in subspace. 

“When do I leave?”

“In a joor.”

With a nod, Hound stepped past his friend and into the hallway, patting the thickly armored shoulder as he passed. “Lead the way, TB.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The shuttle was ready to go, parked neatly in one of the docking bays. Hound stared at it for a long moment before turning to smile at Trailbreaker. 

“What are you scared of?” he asked his friend, and the black mech stared. 

Then his expression softened into a loving smile. “Losing what I care about.”

Hound grinned and leaned forward and up. “I'll see you again sometime, you know. I’m a scout. I’m supposed to be able to look and see the trail ahead,” he whispered in a black audio. “And our future is looking good.” He pulled back slightly, then pressed a gentle kiss to Trailbreaker's lips. 

The black mech was frozen for a klik. Then he responded, kissing back just as gently. Both mechs pulled away, smiling softly at each other. Hound stepped backwards toward the ship. 

“See you around, TB,” he called, then turned and walked up the ramp. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Welcome to Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. I am Base Commander Prowl.”

“Hound. Autobot scout.”

Prowl nodded. “Welcome, Autobot Hound. Normally, I would show a new arrival around, but something has... come up. This is Mirage,” he said, and gestured at the empty air at his side. “He will take my place as tour guide.”

Hound raised an optical ridge and glanced at the empty spot. Perhaps this base was full of mechs a little more kooky than he had been lead to believe by the report. Then something caught his optic. New scuff marks on the ground, in blue and black. Prowl was black, but he had no blue. And the air currents were all wrong. 

Sure enough, the air shimmered, and a mech was standing there. Blue and white, long and slim, delicate but strong. 

“Hello,” the mech said, and Hound instantly identified him as a former Noble. 

“Hey,” he said back, smiling. “Name's Hound.”

“I know. I am Mirage.”

“Nice to meet you, Mirage.”

“You as well.”


	11. Perceptor

PERCEPTOR

He was a scientist, first and foremost. Even after vorns of war, after training and modifications, he was a scientist. Always inquisitive, always wondering and exploring and thinking. He never let an opportunity to learn pass him by without snatching at it. 

Which was why, when he saw the strange, organic being while on patrol, he didn't immediately start shooting, as most mechs would have done. Instead, he tilted his helm to the side and stared. 

It was a strange creature. Dark, gray-green skin. A flat face, wide mouth filled with fangs. Seven digits on each limb, with sharp black claws tipping each digit. Ten long tentacles trailed down its back from its shoulders and spine. 

It hissed at the sniper, and Perceptor blinked. This creature... it looked familiar. He started his extensive databanks running, because he knew he had seen one of these, or at least an image capture, at least once before. In the meantime, though, he could at least try to calm it down.

“Shh... Easy. I will not harm you in any way. I do not wish to cause trouble...”

Which was when his databanks popped up an answer. 

“Species: Quintesson. Last official siting: when fleeing the planet after the Revolution. Unconfirmed sitings have been reported through the galaxy.”

Perceptor jerked backwards. Quintesson? Quintesson? Here? On Cybertron?

… But it was very obviously alone. There were no other organic life forms nearby. This one stood out like a convoy class mech among a crowd of minibots.

Perceptor knelt down and beckoned to the comparatively small being. It hissed, and he held up his hands. The scientist held still. After a moment, the Quintesson slowly started forward. Perceptor smiled, and initiated a transformation. It was one any carrier mech or femme had, as well as a few sires; a chamber for carrying a sparkling while it was still small and young. The Quintesson hissed, and Perceptor hid a frown. How to get it to understand?

After a moment, the scientist mimed covering his optics, then pointed into his chassis. His hands covered the opening, then gestured around. Hidden. No one can see you in here.

The Quintesson watched the Autobot warily for a long moment. Then it nodded slowly and crept forward. Perceptor held as still as possible as the tentacled being climbed nimbly up his leg and chest and peeked into the chamber. After a moment, he climbed in. Perceptor closed it, and heard a squeak from inside. Nothing to do about it now, though. 

He slowly rose to his pedes, then started off with an even stride, knowing he would have to complete his patrol route before he could even think about heading back to base and searching for a Quintesson language module. 

Oh, this was going to be wonderful! He could hardly wait!

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The module was actually very easy to find and instal. Easier, actually, than throwing off those he had to ask along the way. He knew he couldn't reveal the Quintesson; everyone would immediately have it killed, no matter the fact that the Quintessons hadn't been seen for millions of vorns. 

Knowing this, he had quickly come up with a cover story: mere curiosity. With his reputation as a rather scatter-processored, quirky scientist, it wasn't hard for him to get away with it. 

He integrated it quickly, doing so as he walked to his lab, and activated it as he entered the room and opened his chassis plates. The Quintesson leapt out as though burned, hissing and spitting as it went. 

Perceptor could understand it now, though.

“Thrice cursed, stullus of a mech!” it hissed, barring black fangs at the scientist. Perceptor drew back. 

“My goodness! A little politeness is, perhaps, in order for the mech by whom you were saved!”

The Quintesson froze, staring with wide, dark eyes at the mech. “What?”

“I did save your life, organic. The least you can do is be polite about it.”

“No, no... You speak Quintessua?”

Perceptor blinked. “Yes. I aquired and integrated the language module while proceeding here. I am a Cybertronian. We are quite capable of downloading such a file.”

“Oh,” the Quintesson hummed as it sat back slightly. Then it hissed again. “Why am I here?”

“Because I did not want you to be eliminated. I wished to learn about you.”

The creature crouched lower and stepped back on the table, hissing all the while. Perceptor looked at it curiously before realizing that he could have possibly phrased his last sentence more tactfully.

“Ah, I mean I wish to learn from you. I do not wish to cause you any harm.”

The Quintesson just hissed again. Perceptor vented and frowned, but nodded slowly. “I understand you will not trust me implicitly right away. I do ask that you give me a chance. I vow I will not harm you.”

With that, he turned away and sat down at his terminal, allowing the creature to explore his quarters as he wished. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“So you were here to study us in secret, and see how we have been progressing over the vorns?”

The Quintesson nodded. “Yes,” it said from its perch on top of one of Perceptor's lab cabinets. “We have been sending scouts for... 'vorns'... now. Ever since we left. Our kind never held a grudge at you winning your freedom. We anticipated it, to be honest. However, I did not expect to land in the middle of a war...”

Perceptor let out a rumble of his engine, the equivalent of a snort. “You haven't been here in a while, then, have you?”

Tavar'ka nodded. “There was an epidemic some time ago. We were busy fighting it off. Then I was sent, and my ship was destroyed. I had been wandering for days.. ah, what do you call them... orns? before you found me.”

Perceptor nodded. “Understandable. Now, we were talking earlier about the caste system?”

The gray-green creature nodded. “Right. Well, like I said, there are ten castes...”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The sensors bleeped noisily, sounding out the beat of the Quintesson's two three-chambered hearts. Another sensor, this one displayed visually on a screen, showed the intake of the atmosphere through the creature's mouth and nose and out the flared gill-like structures on its sides. Another scanner took readings of its internal workings, creating a detailed digital model of the Quintesson. 

After a moment, Perceptor nodded, and Tavar'ka started pulling the sensors off its thick skin. 

“Fascinating,” the Autobot mused as he examined the readings. “I had no idea a Quintesson's lungs were as efficient as that.”

Tavar'ka glanced at the readings as he scrambled up Perceptor's frame, the months he had spent here showing in how easily he maneuvered his way up. “Are they?” he asked as he settled himself on the shoulder not carrying the wide cylinder Perceptor used as both a part of his alt mode and a scope for when he was shooting. 

“They are. Very few organics are able to live on Cybertron, because of its thin atmosphere. You, however, seem to be engineered with a thin atmosphere in processor. Do you know on what planet your species originated?”

The Quintesson shook his head, his tentacles waving slightly to counterbalance the movement. “No. We left it aeons ago. There are only rumors. Nothing more.”

Perceptor nodded. “I see. Well, let us keep on. It is your turn. What do you wish to know about a Cybertronian frame?”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The orns passed quickly. When Perceptor was on patrol, Tavar'ka stayed in his lab or room. When Perceptor was on base, the Quintesson would often stay in the scientist's chassis compartment, hidden from view but able to listen. Plus, it was one of the few places he felt safe enough to sleep. 

Which, when Perceptor thought about it, was somewhat ironic. The Quintessons lived in infamy among the Cybertronians. Their former slavers and masters. The monsters creators used to scare their creations into good behavior. Be good or the Quintessons will come and get you!

Yet, this Quintesson was not a monster. He was as much a person as Perceptor. A scientist and scholar, he had said, and proved repeatedly when he was able to keep up with the Autobot scientist (as long as Perceptor spoke in Quintessua. While he was slowly teaching Tavar'ka to understand Cybertronian, it was a difficult language, and the creature by no means knew enough to understand Perceptor's scientific ramblings. 

They got along well, the organic and Cybertronian. They had similar interests, similar tastes, and could offer each other so much. Perceptor learned all he could about the Quintessons, and Tavar'ka learned about the Cybertronians. Every tidbit of information was freely given and always returned. 

Three groons passed without incident. Tavar'ka managed to stay hidden, and Perceptor was able to pretend he was sticking to a normal schedule. 

But things always went wrong eventually. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Perceptor, Roadsign needs those- What is that!”

Perceptor and Tavar'ka jerked up, optics and eyes widened in surprise. The mech who had just walked in, a gray courier, stared back, jaw hanging. 

“Slag,” Perceptor muttered, and the courier's optics widened even more. Perceptor didn't swear. 

The courier took a deep vent and looked over the scene again. Perceptor was sitting at a table, and the gray-green creature was sitting cross legged on the table in front of the red and turquoise scientist. Then he did a double-take as his processors pulled up old image files.

“Quintesson! That's a Quintesson!”

“Yes, it is. Now do please be quiet!” Perceptor begged, standing up and holding his hands out. “It means no harm! It... He crashed here, and his ship was destroyed...”

But he was speaking to no one. The courier had run off, presumably to tell his superiors Perceptor was hiding a Quintesson in his lab. 

The scientist vented and glanced at the creature on his desk. 

Tavar'ka was sitting dejectedly, head down, tentacles limp. “Let them take me,” he finally said, looking up at his friend. “I don't want you to be in trouble.”

Perceptor scowled. “No. You are my friend, Tavar'ka. I have few enough of those that I need to protect every one I have. Come here,” he said, and opened his chest plates. “Get in. You're staying there until it's safe to come out.”

The Quintesson took a step back. “No! Perceptor, I can't! They'll hurt you!”

“I do not care,” the scientist said, voice heavy with conviction. When Tavar'ka still seemed reluctant, he reached down and picked the creature up. “I am keeping you safe,” he said, and gently, though forcefully, placed the Quintesson in his chassis compartment, closed the panels, and locked them shut.

It was then that the guards burst into his lab. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Perceptor stood by his word. He would not open his chest plates. He defended his friend. 

His commanders were at a loss. They couldn't execute him – he was needed, his work produced very valuable results, and there really wasn't anything in the rules and regulations that forbid associating with Quintessons. But he wouldn't let them get rid of the organic, and so he couldn't exactly be allowed to stay. He had to be removed from the base. 

So they searched, and found a base where his presence – or, more accurately, the Quintesson's presence – would make little difference. 

And so, Perceptor was shipped out.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Welcome to Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E, Autobot...?”

“My designation is Perceptor,” the scientist said as he walked slowly up to the black and white Praxian greeting him. 

“Perceptor. My name is Prowl. I am the Commander here.”

The scientist nodded. “I see...” he trailed off, looking at the Base Commander expectantly. Prowl's doorwings twitched slightly. 

“They do not send me information about new arrivals. They only alert me when someone is coming. Transferring the files over such a long distance is considered wasteful, when they can just be transmitted from the shuttle when it gets here.”

Perceptor nodded. “I understand. You should know, however, why I have been sent here.”

“Very well. Please explain.”

Perceptor took a deep vent. “Perhaps in a more... secure environment?”

“If you wish. This way, please.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“So you are saying that this Quintesson is not violent or vengeful in any means? And that the Quintessons anticipated us to rebel?”

“Yes, sir.”

Prowl mused on this for a moment, helm cocked to the side, gold optics dimming slightly. “I see. May I meet him?”

“Ah... Yes. Just a moment,” Perceptor said, then focused inward, working through the locks he had placed on his chassis compartment. After a few kliks, the plates clicked and slid apart. Tavar'ka climbed out, hissing slightly at the scientist. 

“Do you know how cramped it gets in there?” he grumbled before noticing the Praxian, who was watching him intently. He cowered back slightly against Perceptor's plating, watching the black and white mech with gleaming eyes. “Who is that?”

“Tavar'ka, this is Prowl, my new Base Commander,” the scientist said in Quintessua, then switched back to Cybertronian. “Prowl, this is Tavar'ka, the Quintesson scientist and researcher.” 

Prowl nodded slowly. “I see. Tell him it is a pleasure to meet him.”

Perceptor did so, and Prowl smiled when Tavar'ka returned the greeting through the scientist. 

The tactician gazed at the two for a moment before he wove his fingers together and rested his elbows on the desk. “Perceptor, you are a scientist, and are accustomed to having your own lab, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, as most mechs will not be as understanding as some can be, you will want a room where you will not be disturbed.”

Perceptor blinked, surprised. “If at all possible. Tavar'ka will live for some time yet, or at least be unable to leave, and I would appreciate being able to continue working with him until then.”

Prowl nodded, a tiny sparkle in his optic. “Then follow me.”

Their walk was relatively short. The base was smaller than any Perceptor had been stationed at in the past, so it wouldn't ever take too long to get from one side to another. 

The stopped in the Storage Decks, on Level C. Prowl stood in front of an unmarked door. 

“This is Storage Room Beta-13. Jazz has been using it as a storage room for his Special Operations supplies. To be quite honest, I have no idea why he needs them out here, or even how he got them, but that is inconsequential. He recently decided that it was unwise to keep everything in one place, and so has moved most of it out. As we now have an empty room that, until now, has been forbidden entrance to any but myself and Jazz... I believe it prudent to put it to use. You had a reputation as a very dedicated scientist before, no?”

“Correct.”

“Perhaps we can benefit off that... Say you have a penchant for toxic chemicals, as we already have someone who enjoys explosions...”

Perceptor raised an optic ridge as he examined the door critically, mentally reviewing Prowl's statement. Another scientist who enjoyed explosives? He would have to look into that. “To tell the truth, I do enjoy experimenting with chemicals regarded by most as poisonous.”

“Dear Primus, not another one,” Prowl muttered, and Perceptor barely held back a laugh. “Well, that will work well, then,” the tactician said at a more regular volume. “Welcome to Base, Perceptor, and your new lab.”

Perceptor eyed the door again before turning to the tactician with a small smile. “Thank you.”


	12. The Twins

THE TWINS

Red and yellow twined together, their movements smooth and fast, looking as though they had choreographed the fight vorns ago, and practiced it every day since. Mechs gathered around to watch, entranced by the performance.

Seeing these two fight was common, but they usually were fighting together, not fighting with one another. Usually they were up against a horde of Decepticons, or someone who slagged them off – which wasn't difficult. 

That kind of fighting happened on an ornly basis. This kind, this... not quite friendly sparring, was rare. 

“Slow!” Sunstreaker grunted, and Sideswipe hissed as his brother finally landed a hit. 

“Am not!” he returned with a punch. “On purpose!” he snarled, and crouched down, sweeping his legs out and knocking Sunstreaker off his pedes. 

The yellow twin crashed to the training mat, and was back on his pedes almost instantly. He and his Twin were tangled together in a strange, violent dance not a klik later. 

About two joors later, after they had gathered quite a crowd, they stopped. Some signal passed unspoken between them, and they disengaged and leapt off the mat. Sunstreaker snarled at the mechs in their way, and a clear pathway was opened for them. The two beautiful warriors stalked through the opening, vents barely whirring, faces fixed in angry scowls. Sunstreaker was limping, and Sideswipe was holding his right arm close to his frame. 

~We can't go to the Med Bay, Sunny,~ Sideswipe whispered as his brother turned out into the corridor. 

~I know. I think I can help with your strained joint. Think you can help with my tension wires?~

~I think so,~ the red twin said with bitter humor. ~I've seen R... Ratchet do it often enough.~

Sunstreaker said nothing in return, simply continued to limp down the hall toward their room. Sideswipe followed. 

They didn't get there, though. Five mechs stood in their way. 

“Ooh, lookee here, mechs,” one of them jeered. “A couple lost younglings. Where's your caretaker, littlies? You lose him?”

That jibe struck far closer to the Twins' spark than any of the other mechs knew. Sunstreaker snarled, his leg forgotten. Sideswipe relaxed, flexing his shoulder joints and grinning maliciously. They said nothing, simply stood, ready to fight. 

“What, nothing to say? We not good enough or something? Huh? Huh?” the blue mech said with a wild grin, and stepped stupidly up into the Twins' space. His friends goaded him on, cheering and laughing behind him. 

Sunstreaker snarled again, baring his dental plates like a feral mechanimal. “Back. Off.”

“Or what? Scared I’ll scrape your pathetic paint, little mechling? Your creator color-blind or something? Had to be, to choose that color.”

Sideswipe stiffened slightly. “If you know what's good for you,” he said, voice deadly serious, “you'll shut up and back off right now.”

“Ha! Like-” 

And that was as far as he got. For Sunstreaker had lunged forward. Black forearms and yellow hands gripped the blue armor, so tightly it warped under his fingers. With a push, Sunstreaker had the mech against the wall, and with one swift grab, he tore out his vocalizer. 

“Never,” Sunstreaker whispered, and the sound sent shivers up the mech's spinal strut. “insult my creators or caretaker ever. Ever. Again. If you want to keep your spark, that is.”

The yellow mech pulled away and dropped the clump of shredded wires and tubes in his hand. His fingers were stained with gray-green coolant, and a tiny bit of purple-blue energon was speckled in the fluid. 

The mech fell to his knees, hands clasped over the hole in his throat. He looked stunned and scared. Sideswipe snorted as he moved easily, cat-like, to his brother's side. 

“Don't worry. Sunny knows his business. You won't bleed out. Much. You won't die. Just won't be able to speak out loud until the medics get you a replacement.”

The mech stared with wide optics. Vocalizers didn't usually need replacing, and they weren't often kept in storage. It would most likely be a long while before he would be able to speak again. 

His four friends stared at the two mechs in front of them in horror. Anger was sparking just beneath the surface, though, and it did not take long to break through. 

The four mechs charged. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe wore identical vicious grins as they tore into them. The Twins' pointed fingers dug into gaps and chinks in armor, tore through wires and tubes, ripped and snagged and shredded without care. These were no longer allies in their sight. They were enemies. Attackers. 

They didn't have allies anymore. Their one trustworthy friend and caretaker had been shipped off vorns ago, and they had been wandering ever since. Ratchet had been their guide and moral compass. He had kept them grounded. Knew that they had been raised in a violent environment, and knew that occasionally, they needed to take their anger and frustration out in a violent way. It was who they were. He would repair them after their sparring sessions without question, without complaint (well, as far as the ornery medic could), and without report, as long as it didn't take up too much material. 

The same could not be said of the other medics they had been subjected to. They were no longer able to vent their frustrations in the only way they knew how. It led to things like this; they would spar – often, though rarely in public – but would leave as little damage on each other as possible, which usually used more restraint and wound them tighter, rather than letting them relax. They were not the most liked mechs on base, and so would be confronted, and it would result in explosions like this. 

It didn't take long for the four mechs around them to be but sparking heaps on the ground. 

It was then that the Twins woke from their haze of energon-lust. Their frames were spattered with fluid, none of it theirs. Sunstreaker became aware of the ache in his hip again, and Sideswipe hissed as the dislocated joint of his right elbow shot stabs of fire through his neural net. The two warriors stood amid the scraps of their fellow Autobots, blinking in a sort of horrified wonder. 

There was a loud gasp and a hiss, and the two frontliners whirled around. A mech was standing at the end of the hallway, horrified optics almost white with fear. His armor was rattling. 

“You- you-!” he stuttered, then turned and ran. Sideswipe's shoulders slumped, and Sunstreaker bowed his helm. 

~We're...~

~In trouble,~ Sunstreaker finished, looking up with pale, empty optics. ~I'm sorry, Sides. My fault.~

~No. Both of our faults. We're one spark, Bro. We're in this all together.~

~Thanks.~

~'S what I’m here for, Bro. At least they know not to split us up.~

Both red and yellow armor rattled at the memory. Those had been nightmare orns, when they were separated. Neither of them retained much memory of those times – Twins weren't meant to function separately.

The two didn't try to move. They stayed where they were, surrounded by the shed energon of their comrades. 

They didn't resist when the big, burly guard-mechs came and put them in stasis cuffs. It would only result in more painful injuries. And as good as they were, they couldn't take on the whole Autobot army. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

~What're they gonna do with us, Sunny?~ Sideswipe whispered across their shared spark as he gazed through the bars of his cell at his brother. They were in cells opposite each other, with a hallway in between. Both were kneeling against the bars, as close to each other as they could get. 

~I don't know, Sides,~ Sunstreaker whispered back, optics closing and shoulders slumping. He involuntarily raised his hand through the bars, reaching for his brother. ~I don't know.~

Sideswipe reached back. The distance between their hands was large, but they imagined their fingers touching, imagined the feel of the other on their plating, and deepened their connection through the bond, taking comfort in each other. 

~Whatever happens, Sunshine...~

~We'll be together. I promise.~

~I promise too.~

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“What are we going to do with them?”

“I don't know, Commander. They're good fighters, but... the fight is in their sparks. They fight when it isn't necessary, and cost us a lot of damage.”

“I've looked at their records. They never used to be like this. They were stable, for the most part. When they first joined, they were a bit violent, but they settled out. What changed?”

“May I see the records, Commander?”

“Here.”

“Hm... Yes... They did seem stable. A few reports of fighting, but nothing to be overly worried about. Lots of reports by a medic by the name of Ratchet... then they just... stop. Do we have this medic's records?”

“Give me a moment to look them up. Ah. Here they are. Great medic. Almost perfect record. Then he was transferred out to a Moon Base... I’ve never heard of it before. Here, can I see those again?”

“Yes. Here.”

“Hm. The dates coincide. After he left, they started getting more and more unbalanced. More fights, more injuries, more damage... Think there's a connection?”

“Could be, Commander. What do you suggest doing?”

“Ah. I do not know... They are good fighters, valuable on the field. But unless they are... subdued, they cause more damage than they are worth.”

“Then, if this medic is their... stabilizer, so to speak, could we request him to be transferred here?”

“No. He was transferred by Sentinel Prime himself. I can't counteract his orders.”

“Hm. What about sending the Twins to him?”

“I- actually, that is a good idea. Can you write up the transfer orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Tell Blazer to let them know.”

“Yes, sir.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Get up.”

The Twins glanced up at the wide, orange mech, regarding their visitor warily. “Why?” Sideswipe asked after a moment of glaring. 

“Commander's orders. Get up and come with me.”

Looking very unhappy to do it, Blazer unlocked the cell doors. The Twins were on their pedes and out the doors in a klik. They stood together, legs slightly bent, arms held loosely at their sides. Not technically a combat stance, but a ready one, at least. 

Blazer growled lowly, engine rumbling. “Come on. Commander wants to see you.”

The Twins followed warily, flanking the big orange mech. Mechs parted around them as they walked, pressing against the walls as though the Twins carried a contagious, aerial-transported virus. 

The Twins did not view the Autobots as allies. The Autobots, in return, did not view the Twins as allies or friends. They were enemies. Destructive forces that would be better off gone.

And soon they would be.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The shuttle rattled ominously as it entered the thin atmosphere of the moon. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker stared at each other, barely resisting the urge to hold hands. Instead, they deepened their bond, holding on to each other mentally. 

~We'll be alright. We'll be alright. Right?~

~Of course. We'll be fine. And we'll be together.~

~Right.~

Sunstreaker glanced up, a dry smirk in place. 

Sideswipe returned it. 

~We can always cause enough trouble to get transferred out. Where are we going anyways?~

~Don't know. We weren't told.~

Sunstreaker vented. ~Well. Together.~

~Together,~ his brother agreed, finally reaching out and taking his brother's hand. ~Always.~

There was another loud rattle, and the ship landed. 

The loading door opened, and the Twins stood and walked off. The cockpit was closed off. They had never seen their pilots. After they had exited the ship, the door closed behind them, and the shuttle flew away. They watched it go, rather surprised at its abrupt leave-taking. 

“Welcome to Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. I am Base Commander Prowl. You are...?” a smooth tenor said from behind them, and they whirled around. A black and white Praxian was standing behind them, a datapad in hand, optic ridge raised slightly. 

“Ah... I’m Sideswipe. My twin is Sunstreaker.”

The optic ridge rose further. “Twins?” he said out loud, then, under his exvents, mumbled, “Why not?”

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker blinked. ~'Why not'?~ Sideswipe repeated over their bond. 

Sunstreaker gave the mental approximation of a shrug. 

“Come. I will take you on a tour of the base and show you to your quarters. I assume you wish to share?”

Sideswipe nodded. 

“Very well. Come with me, please.”

The Twins followed meekly behind the Praxian. The tour was rather uneventful. They were walked through half the base before something rather out of the ordinary happened; a young Praxian, this one painted a silvery gray with red accents and a red chevron much like Prowl's, ran up, vocalizer going a mile a minute. 

“Prowl! Prowl! You'll never guess! I was looking for some wires for Wheeljack – he ran out of them earlier, and we were talking in the Rec Roo- I mean, Commissary, and I remembered, and thought I'd get some for him, but I accidentally went into the wrong storage room, and Perceptor was there, and-”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know? I mean, you've seen the-”

“Yes, Bluestreak, I have. You, however, should not have. Please refrain from speaking of it.”

“Oh. Oh. Right. Um. Yeah. Oh! Hi! You must be the new arrivals Prowl was talking about earlier! My name is Bluestreak – but you'll already know that, because Prowl just used it. What are your names? And welcome to base! You'll have lots of fun here! Either that, or you'll go insane.”

As Bluestreak babbled on, not leaving room for them to answer, Prowl leaned over slightly. “You'll get used to it. He knows he babbles a lot, so if you have something to say, just cut in. He doesn't mind.”

Sunstreaker gave Prowl a disbelieving look, but Sideswipe went ahead and did as told. As soon as he started speaking, the gray Praxian stopped speaking mid-sentence and stared at him with wide, expectant optics. “Uh. Bluestreak, my name is Sideswipe. This is my twin, Sunstreaker. And thanks.”

“You're welcome! Oh, and Prowl, Ratchet was looking for you earlier-”

“What? Ratchet?” Sunstreaker stepped forward and wrapped long, clawed fingers around Bluestreak's shoulders. The Praxian yelped. “You said Ratchet? Where is he?”

“Sunstreaker! Let go of him,” Prowl rumbled dangerously, doorwings rising in aggression. Sunstreaker took one look at him and stepped back, but he kept staring at the gray Praxian. 

“Ratchet. Where is he?”

“You know him? I mean, I guess it makes sense, sort of, he wasn't here all the time, he had to know people before he came here. But it's strange that you're here! And kinda awesome, because not many of us know people here that we knew before we got here, and I know I don't, except for Prowl, since he was the one who brought me, and I sorta remember Jazz, but no one else is really like that, and-”

“Where's Ratchet?” Sunstreaker growled, and Bluestreak blinked. 

Prowl gave a little chuckle. “If you really know him, shouldn't you know?”

Sideswipe gave a little grin and turned to the black and white Praxian. “Can you show us the Med Bay next?”

“Of course. If you will follow me?”

They hurried, as much as Prowl would allow, long strides eating up the distance, Bluestreak babbling all the way. 

At the Med Bay doors, they paused, the Twins smiling at the familiar cursing and banging around. 

“Slagging glitch! This is the twelfth time this cycle! How often will this happen!”

There was a loud clang and a yelp. “Ratchet, it was an accident! I was distracted, and plugged in the wrong wire-”

Another clang, and another yelp. “Do I fragging look like I care?”

“Oh, we know you do!” Sideswipe cheered as he rounded the corner, followed by his brother and the two Praxians. 

Ratchet turned and growled at the newly entered mechs. “Mute it, Sideswipe, or I’ll fragging- Sideswipe?” 

“The one and only!” the red twin smirked a he posed dramatically. Sunstreaker snorted and smacked his brother over the helm. 

“Mute it, Sides. Hi, Ratchet.”

“Sunstreaker-? How-? What-?”

Sideswipe's grin faltered and he dropped his pose. “Well... Uh...”

“Never mind,” the medic said as he walked forward, setting his welder down on a berth as he passed. “It's good to see you two. Even if it will mean more work for me.”

Sideswipe looked up at his surrogate caretaker and smiled sadly. “Same here, Ratch. We missed you.”

Sunstreaker was the one who grabbed the medic first. Sideswipe was pulled into the hug a moment later. 

“Primus, it's good to see you two,” Ratchet mumbled from where he was sandwiched between two broad chassis. “Hasn't been the same without you filling my Med Bay up with pointless babble.”

Sideswipe grinned and glanced over at Bluestreak. “I thought that's what he was for?”

“Hey!” the Praxian protested, but not very enthusiastically. 

“Ha! Blue isn't in here often enough to be a nuisance.”

“Thanks, I think,” Bluestreak mumbled. 

“Now,” the medic said as he pulled away from the hug. “I don't want to see you in here for a while, yet. Matrix knows you'll be getting into trouble soon enough. Just keep it out of my Med Bay.”

“Yes, sir, medic, sir!” Sideswipe said with a grin, giving a cheeky salute. Ratchet just groaned, a grin hidden behind the rolling optics and twitching scowl.


	13. Trailbreaker

TRAILBREAKER

He woke in the Med Bay to the sound of monitors and the soft vents of other injured mechs. A quick diagnostic scan revealed that a good portion of his frame had been rebuilt, and a moment later, when his sensors finally recalibrated, he could feel feel the ache of integrating parts, though it was dulled by painkillers and sedatives.

With a quiet groan, he lifted his arm to his face, rubbing a black servo over black faceplates and under a blue visor. He vented slowly and tried to recall what had landed him in the Med Bay in the first place.

There had been a mission... They were retrieving something. A mech? 

No, a femme. She was a scout... had signaled that she had important information and that she was in danger, then had disappeared. Trailbreaker and his team had been ordered to find her and bring her back. 

And... they had found her? He remembered a sleek, gray-green frame. And red optics. Then there was fire, pain, darkness- people, his team, they were screaming! He needed... he needed...

“Whoa, calm down there. Easy, now. You're alright. You're in the Med Bay in the Kalihex Autobot base. I’m Actuator, one of the assistant medics here. You're alright. Everything's been repaired, and you've been stable for an orn and a half now.”

Trailbreaker gazed blindly up at the ceiling, processor feeling foggy. “Oh.”

“Yup. You were lucky. I think you threw up a force-field as soon as you realized that the femme was a traitor. Not quite fast enough, but fast enough to save your spark.”

Something clicked in Trailbreaker's processor. “My spark. My... What about my team?” They had all been in front of him! He... had they... had he managed to save them too?

“Your...? You were the only one they brought in...”

The black scout stayed silent, closing his optics and letting his arm fall back at his side. 

Starset, Graystorm, Rustoff, Swingside, Pacer... All gone? His spark pulsed hollowly in his chassis. His team. They had been together since before the war. Had been an Enforcer Search-and-Rescue unit, and had managed to stay together through everything that had happened. 

Until now, at least. 

“I... I’m sorry,” Actuator said as he rested a gentle hand on the black mech's shoulder. “I really am.”

Trailbreaker didn't react. 

“If it's any consolation, they, that is, the higher-ups... they're sending you to a base where one of your old team mates is stationed... I overheard them discussing it with Crank, the head medic.”

The black scout blinked. Old team mate? No, he hadn't had any team mates other than those five... 

Except for Hou- the Wild Mech. The one who had been sent off a while ago. The one who'd managed to so completely capture his attention that... well, he wasn't sure what. 

“Hound?” he rasped, staring up at the medic. “Did they say his name was Hound?”

“I don't remember them saying a name. I’m sorry. Um... I have other patients to get to... If you need anything, call me, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispered, and closed his optics again. He drifted into an uneasy recharge, the faces of his... deactivated... team mates floating in his view, first smiling and happy, then screaming and encompassed by fire and darkness. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

He jolted awake as a loud clang echoed through the Med Bay. Actuator was standing near the wall, looking horrified. “I'm so sorry! I didn't mean- it was an accident- I was-”

“'S fine,” Trailbreaker mumbled as he stared at the dark ceiling. 

“Oh... Um... I was just coming to change your sedatives.”

“No.”

“What?”

Trailbreaker shook his helm. “Don't give me any more. Don't like 'em.”

“But...”

“I don't want them.”

Hesitantly, the Actuator pulled his hands back, subspacing the bag of sedatives. “Why don't you?”

Trailbreaker closed his optics and settled back, already aware of his processors clearing. “I'm a tracker. We... I... need to be aware. Part of coding. Deep coding. Hate not not being able to think.”

“Oh.”

“Mm...”

And darkness swallowed him again. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The next time he woke, it was light again, and Actuator was once again at his side. “They're shipping you out today,” the medic said in greeting, not meeting the tracker's optics, instead staring intently at the piece of medical equipment he was fiddling with in his hands. 

“What?”

“They're sending you to your team mate's base this orn. They've got a medic there, so... you'll finish recovering there.”

“Oh.”

“Mm. I hope it's the mech you're looking for.”

“Me too,” Trailbreaker murmured, then realized what it was in the medic's hands. “You're supposed to sedate me, aren't you?'

“... Yeah,” he mumbled. “I know you don't like it, but it's procedure, and they don't want you awake and injured on the ship! I-”

“It's alright. It's fine. I understand.”

“But-”

“I don't like it,” Trailbreaker interrupted, closing his optics and sticking his arm out. “But I can deal with it.”

“Oh. Um. Okay. I... I am sorry.”

“It's fine.”

“Uh... Bye, Trailbreaker. I’m sorry...”

“Bye,” the black tracker murmured as the sedative was injected into his main energon line. 

Once again, everything got fuzzy and clouded. A moment later, the fuzziness dissolved into black. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“I know you're awake, so stop faking,” a gruff voice snarled at his side, and Trailbreaker opened his optics. “I'm Ratchet. CMO here on Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. Hope you're used to chaos, because we've got it in surplus here.”

The medic was a large, white mech with red accents. A sharp gray chevron crowned his helm. Dark blue optics glared out from underneath, making the black tracker feel as though he was being pinned to the berth by the weight of the gaze alone. 

“So. I’ve got work to do. You're completely repaired. It'll take a couple orns for the repairs to finalize, but as long as you don't go around doing anything strenuous, you should be fine. Prowl's waiting for you outside. Now get out of my Med Bay.” With that, Ratchet walked away and started sorting tools on a shelf pushed against one of the walls. 

Trailbreaker stared for a long moment, then slowly moved to sit up. When he took too long, the medic turned around to once again glare at him. 

“Look, mech. This base isn't like other bases. You won't be going on missions all the time like you were before. You actually won't see many Decepticons at all, so I can put you on medical leave and trust it's enforced. This place is the Pit, but people follow my orders. Now get your aft off the berth and out the door. I’ve got work to do.”

The medic turned his back again, and Trailbreaker slowly stood up. When Ratchet didn't turn around again, the tracker slowly made his way to the door, then out it. 

As the medic had promised, another mech was waiting in the hall. A black and white Praxian, doorwings held high and stiff, face blank, a datapad tucked under his arm. 

The professional image was ruined by the small silver mech snuggled up between the wide doorwings, draped over the Praxian's back, arms looped around his neck. 

“Uh... hi,” Trailbreaker managed after a rather awkward moment of staring. Prowl, he assumed, nodded. 

“Welcome to Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. I am Base Commander Prowl. You are Trailbreaker, yes?”

“Yes.”

Prowl nodded. “Very good. If you come with me, I will show you around the base, then to your quarters.”

With that, the Praxian twitched his doorwings, dislodging the silver mech, turned, and started walking down the hallway. Trailbreaker stared, first at the Base Commander's back, then at the grinning silver mech. 

“Hey. C'mon, Ah'll walk wit'ya. Name's Jazz. Head o' Special Operations here on base, though we don' get all that much t' do. What'a you do?”

“I'm a tracker.”

“Ooh, cool! Ah love trackers,” the mech said with a grin, and Trailbreaker shot him a wary glance. “Hah... Sorry. Mean Ah love what ya do. Yer a lot'a help with our d'vision.”

“Jazz,” the Praxian interjected without turning around. 

Jazz snickered. “Yes, dearest. Ah won' scare th' new recruits.”

Trailbreaker got the feeling that Prowl was rolling his optics. 

“Anyways... We've got 'nother tracker out here. Name's Hound. You know him?”

“I- Hound is here?” So it was Hound! Something in his spark lurched. 

“Ah'll take that 's a 'yes',” Jazz said with a smirk. “An' yeah, he's here. Been here for, what, a vorn now?”

“Yes. A vorn and two groons,” Prowl affirmed. “If you wish, I can call.”

“I... it would be nice to see him again,” the tracker admitted, yearning for something at least a little bit familiar.

“I will comm him. Just a moment, please.”

They were quiet as they walked, only their pede steps sounding in the corridor. Then Prowl spoke again. 

“We will meet him in the Commissary, and from there, he will take over your tour.”

“Okay,” Trailbreaker said, smiling faintly. Prowl nodded back, then turned and continued walking. The silver and black mechs followed. 

A couple breems later, they were in the Commissary. It wasn't full, but there were quite a few mechs sitting at tables drinking their energon. A flock of minibots was in one of the back corner booths. Another mech, a large yellow one, was glaring at them. The red mech at his side was laughing and joking with a red, black, and white aerial, who was sitting at the adjacent table. At another table, a small red mech, not quite a minibot, with a large barrel of some sort on his shoulder was babbling excitedly to a white and green mech with flashing helm fins. 

Trailbreaker blinked. It looked... not normal, somehow. 

After a moment of thinking, he got it. They were more than just happy, they were relaxed. There was a little bit of tension, sure, in the way the yellow mech was glaring at the minibots (and now that he looked closer, it seemed to be one minibot, a red one, in particular), or the way everyone seemed to be avoiding the mechs with the barrel and helm fins, but...

Nobody feared attack. Ratchet had said that they rarely saw any Decepticons out here, wherever here was. Were attacks really rare enough that the tension that filled every base on Cybertron was absent here?

“Ah, Hound, there you are. Thank you for showing Trailbreaker around. If you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

Trailbreaker jerked back to himself as Prowl excused himself and walked away. Then he glanced over to his other side, where a bulky green mech was standing with a wide grin. 

“TB,” he said, grin growing even wider. “Heh. I told you we'd see each other again.”

Trailbreaker smiled in return. “So you did. It's good to see you, Hound.”

“More than just old 'good', I should hope! So. What'd you do to get sent out here?”

The black tracker froze, staring with wide optics at his former team mate.

“Hound, I do not believe that is something we need to know right now,” a soft, cultured voice said, and Trailbreaker jumped. A slim, blue and white mech was standing slightly off to the side. “Hello, Trailbreaker. I’m Mirage. I’m a friend of Hound's,” he said as he stepped toward the two trackers. 

The mech, a noble, Trailbreaker decided, smiled softly at the green tracker, and the black mech felt his spark lurch again, but this time, it was painful. That smile... it was the same one Hound had given him, the same one he had returned. Mirage was in love... in love with Hound. 

“Hello, Mirage,” he forced himself to say, nodding at the noble. 

“Welcome to base,” the blue and white mech said, smiling.

“Yeah. Welcome home, TB.”


	14. Interlude -- BOOM!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly out of order, but... oops?

Title: When Wise Mechs are Banished -- Interlude -- BOOM  
Word Count: 560  
Rating: T  
Continuity: Movieverse/G1 AU  
Characters: Wheeljack, Ratchet, mentions of others  
Disclaimer: I wish.   
Prompt: Prompt 1: Mass Effect (Basically, the more mass there is in a chemical reaction, the larger the reaction)  
Summary: Prequel to Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread. A little interlude with Wheeljack. 

 

 

INTERLUDE - BOOM

It wasn't like they were uncommon. Ever since Wheeljack had been sent to the little Moon Base, explosions happened on a regular basis. They were usually enough to rock the base, though were rarely large enough to do more than melt half of his lab. 

This boom, however, was a bit... larger. 

Well, more than a bit. It was exponentially larger than any of his previous unintentional booms. It took out the whole science sector, as well as a good chunk of the storage bays that stood between the labs and the residential sector. Smoke filled the hallways of the rest of the base almost instantly, pushed along by the force of the blast. If someone had looked down on the base through the thin atmosphere of the moon, they would have seen only a patch of smoke slowly rising to the stars. 

Wheeljack had been the only one in the science sector at the time, which was very fortunate. His frame's mass was almost forty percent armor, versus the usual twenty percent. After his many accidents, he needed it. 

At the moment, his usual green, red, and white colors were gone, replaced with charred black and gray. His helm fins flashed rapidly through all the colors of the rainbow as they reset, and he sat up. 

“Well. That was... unexpected. What happened, I wonder...?” 

The inventor glanced around, finally noting the extent of the damage, and his optics widened. “Um...” he hummed, then activated his comm link. ::... Ratchet?::

::You didn't lose your pedes again, did you? Because, I swear, if you make me reattach those one more time-::

:No, no! My pedes are fine. Um... do you have any idea why an explosion would take out... uh, multiply by five, carry the two... divide by three point seven... twelve times the area I calculated would be even possible, much less likely?::

Ratchet was silent for a moment. Then he growled. ::Wheeljack, what are you saying.::

It wasn't a question. 

::Um. The explosion was big. Bigger. Too big. Much, much too big.::

::Is your lab still standing?::

Wheeljack glanced around. ::Well... you always did say my lab was a pit...::

::It's gone. Just... It's completely gone, isn't it.::

::Well, there're still some wires over where the corner would be, if I still had any walls...::

Ratchet just vented. ::Are you injured?::

::Nah, just a little singed. Which is... weird.::

::I'll say. But if you aren't injured, why are you calling me?::

Wheeljack paused. ::Um... To tell you the truth... I don't know?::

His only response was a quiet click and the soft hum of static as Ratchet closed the comm line. Wheeljack simply sat in the ash. 

He stayed there, thinking, for a long time. Then his helm fins flashed excitedly and he reopened the comm line with the medic. ::Ratchet! Ratchet! I figured it out?::

::What?::

::I figured it out! See, the other day, out on patrol, I found this deposit of hydrogen, and I went back later and stored it-::

::And it was in the storage room next to you.::

::Exactly! So, more explosives, bigger explosion. Mass effect!::

::... Right. Well, you'd better explain that to Prowl. He just walked by. He doesn't look happy.::

::Eh heheh...:: Wheeljack chuckled, remembering only then that he had destroyed most of... well, a lot of the base. ::Right...::


	15. Interlude - Exothermic Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another out-of-order one. :-P

This was written with a bunny from the tf-bunny farm:  
*Explosion*  
Wheeljack: "HA! Wasn't me this time!"

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

A loud boom echoed through the base. More than a few mechs rolled their optics and expelled the contents of their vents with a huff. Explosions were more than normal here. 

But then there was a shout, both audible and through the comm lines. “HA! Wasn't me this time!” Wheeljack crowed. 

Glances were exchanged. 

“Then who the frag was it?” Ratchet called back, his voice echoing through the hallways. 

“I don't know.”

::Um... My apologies, everyone. I believe the fault is mine,:: came over the public comms. 

::Perceptor?::

::Yes... again, my apologies. I... accidentally picked up a flask of nitroglycerine. I thought it was hydrogen dioxide.::

Ratchet vented heavily. ::Right. Anything injured?::

::No, I am fine.::

::Good. Well, at least you don't get scrapped like Wheeljack.::

Perceptor, in his charred lab, smiled. ::Indeed. Now, I must go about recreating this experiment and using the correct chemicals this time.::

The line clicked closed, and Ratchet vented again, glancing up at the Med Bay doors where Wheeljack was standing. 

“See? Wasn't me this time. Ha!”

Ratchet just rolled his optics.


	16. Smokescreen

SMOKESCREEN

The cards snapped easily from hand to hand. Blue optics watched dazedly, distractedly. The shuttle bounced slightly, and the next rapid pass of the cards was interrupted. 

The thin sheets of flexible metal scattered on the floor. Smokescreen stared with blank optics for a moment, frozen, before he leaned down to pick them up and start flipping them back and forth again. 

He was musing on what, exactly, had gotten him out here. Technically, it wasn't the cards – no, he was careful with his gambling. Rarely lost, but never completely took everything from anyone. Everyone knew he cheated, but no one could ever prove it and, to tell the truth, no one really cared. 

Actually, as long as he was there and handling the House, the commanders unofficially encouraged the gambling. It was a good way to keep morale up. Smokescreen made sure everyone won every now and then. Everyone was happy with the system.

No, what the base commanders didn't like was him playing with Decepticons. Never mind the fact that he was ruthless, taking everything they had. Never mind the fact that Smokescreen was incredibly good at manipulating a conversation to get what he wanted – he was a psychologist before the war, after all. He knew how to manage people.

Even though he managed to get information for the Autobots, even though he managed to get supplies...

It had been decided that it was too risky to let him stay. There were too many opportunities for him to leak information, intentionally or not. Too much risk.

So they had decided to send him somewhere where he would never contact another Decepticon ever again. A small solar system, only eight planets. The moon the base was on orbited the fifth planet, a gas giant with many moons. 

This solar system was far out of any Decepticon travel routes, had next to nothing valuable, save for elements that could be found through the whole universe. 

And he was being sent there. He had looked it up. It was home to some of the most insane, crazy mechs he had heard of. There was that saboteur, the one who had gone insane a while back; everyone knew about him – he had been one of the best, then had lost it all. There was that mech who called himself an inventor, the one who exploded more than he created. The tactician who was more rules and logic than anything else. The security mech who panicked at the thought of anything, and his friend, the one who set fires... And plenty of others. The list went on and on. 

Smokescreen shook his helm as if physically dislodging the thought processes. Well, with the amount of mechs on base, he was bound to find at least one that he enjoyed the company of. And if not, he could always take their money. 

He settled back into watching the cards flip from hand to hand, the comfortable weight of the deck the only thing familiar about any of this. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Smokescreen stared as he stepped out of the shuttle. A Praxian was here? After the destruction of his home city, there were so few, yet the mech greeting him shared his frametype.

The black and white's optic ridge raised as he caught sight of Smokescreen's doorwings, but he said nothing. “Welcome to Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. I am Base Commander Prowl. You are?”

“Autobot Smokescreen. Diversionary tactician and psychologist.” The Praxian was also the base commander? 

“Hm. Another tactician? Well, I suppose they don't take that into account when they send people, but-”

“Excuse me, but are you talking to me, sir?”

Prowl blinked. “What? No, no. Anyways, if you will follow me, we can begin your tour. Now, this base is unlike any other, but there are a few ground rules...”


	17. Blaster (and Cassettes)

BLASTER (AND CASSETTES)

The music he kept silent, playing in only his audios. He kept himself still, constantly batting down the urge to nod with the beat, or tap his fingers as though he were playing a keyboard, or bounce his pede. 

Music, he had found, was frowned upon here. 

Actually, pretty much everything he _was_ , wasn't accepted. 

He was a host; that, in all cities save for Polyhex, Praxus, and Kaon, if the rumors were to be believed, had been an indicator of a lower status. A “slave owner,” they called him and his kind, never mind the fact that the cassettes were his creations, adopted creations, dear friends, confidantes. Family. 

He was a music mech. A DJ. A radio host, back before the war. A comms mech. They viewed him as a non-combatant. A wuss, some people called him. Yet they had never seen him in action, never seen the fierceness that came with the urge to protect his creations, never seen how he could use the music, the noises, everything around him, to get into an enemy's processor, twist it, hurt them. 

Because he could do that. All hosts had some measure of telepathy; it came with having so many bonds. Most hosts had minimal abilities, able to, perhaps, scan emotions, intentions, but never whole thoughts. Then there were some like Soundwave, who could, at will, delve into the mind of any mech they chose, searching out thoughts, memories, ideas, intentions, anything and everything they wanted. 

Then there were mechs like himself, who were just as strong as Soundwave, but could never turn it off. 

It was why he needed the music. It drown out the thoughts, masked them behind a screen of tangible noise, unless he actively started to seek them out. 

~It's okay, Blast,~ a quiet voice whispered through the rather dark thoughts. One of the voices that was always welcome in his mind, one that could always come in uninvited. 

~I know, 'Jaw. Still...~

~It weights on you.~

~We can all see it, Boss,~ another voice joined in. Rewind. 

~Yeah,~ said another; Eject. ~You're out, Boss. We need another round.~

~Not like anywhere else will be any different,~ yet another voice, this one gruff and low, added. 

~You don't know that, Ramhorn.~

~Yeah, 'Horn. I’m sure we might be able to find somewhere where we won't be...~

Outcasts. Rejects. But none of them wanted to say it. 

~Anyways,~ Blaster said after the moment of silence. ~Even if we don't, we'll survive.~

~Yeah, together. As a team.~

~Exactly, Eject. Together.~

And Blaster settled easier into his chair in the darkest corner of the Rec Room, the bubble of space around him doing nothing to dampen the thoughts of the crowds. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“I'm telling you, Sir, this mech is a traitor!”

The blue mech whirled to face Blaster, who had confronted him in the hallway after his five attempts at scheduling a meeting were rejected. “How do you know, Blaster? How do you know so certainly that one of my senior tactical officers is a Decepticon spy?”

“I...”

“And once again, you can't answer. Blaster, you can't do this. You can't just go around blaming mechs you don't like! Life doesn't work that way, and I can't have Vantage arrested on _your_ accusations!”

“Sir, you have to trust me! He will betray you! Soon! He's been feeding the 'Cons information for vorns, now, and he's about ready to do something drastic! Please, listen to me!”

The blue mech just waved off the communications mech and continued down the hall, leaving Blaster behind him. His cassettes flooded out of one of the air vents where they had been hiding, surrounding him, pressing up against him. 

~You tried,~ Steeljaw said, always one of the first to offer comfort. 

~Yes. I wish it had worked...~

~It's all you can do, Boss. Take a shot and the rest of the players decide the game.~

Nothing more was said as they wandered back to their quarters, where they spent the night curled together on Blaster's berth. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Blaster was the only one who was ready when everything went wrong, and he only barely. 

The senior tactician had decided, or had been ordered, to reveal himself, and to do it in the most destructive way possible. 

So he did it in a battle. Started directing mechs into vulnerable positions, not sending backup, leaving flanks and backs open. 

When the other tacticians noticed, they started to try to compensate, not realizing the cause was among themselves, but, slowly, their voices dropped out of the network, until Vantage's was the only one left. 

Blaster wasn't a senior officer. He was only a junior, a subordinate. But he saw what was happening, was able to believe it. 

~'Jaw, 'Horn, Rewind, Eject. In here now. I need your help.~

They spilled from their hiding places, surprising the other communications mechs, making them jump and curse. 

“Blaster, what is the meaning of this? You know they're banned from this room!” a smallish, sleek, silver mech snarled, standing and doing his best to loom over the red frame of the host. 

Blaster stood, too, actually succeeding in looming, a scowl on his normally jovial face. “Can't you see what's happening? Vantage is killing us!”

“He's a tactician! He obviously sees something we don’t! Blaster-”

“No.”

The word was growled, low and rumbling and threatening, shaking the other mechs to their struts. Suddenly, Blaster looked dangerous. They could _feel_ him, an oppressive shadow, darkening their thoughts. 

“Cut the transmission. Hand it all to me.”

“No! We can't do that!”

“Yes, you can. Do it, now!”

“No!”

“Steeljaw!”

The cassette leapt forward, snarling, and tackled the silver mech, claws extended, fangs bared. 

“Now. Open up a channel to Iacon.”

“Don't-” the senior communications officer choked out, and the other mechs in the room glanced at each other, unsure as to what they should do. 

“You would do nothing while they die?” Blaster snarled as he gestured widely, arm swinging to encompass the faraway battle.

“We don't know that he's doing anything wrong,” one of them said. 

“How can you-” the red host started, then was interrupted when all turned to chaos. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The blue base commander came to visit him in the brig. The other communications mechs had called base security, and he had been easily overwhelmed by the guards who had charged in. He could fight, yes, but when he was surprised, when he was surrounded by his allies and cassettes, mechs he didn't want to hurt, there wasn't much he could do.

So he had been taken to the brig, with his cassettes. They were all currently in his hold.

“How did you know?” was what he was greeted with. “How did you know he was a traitor?”

Blaster looked up slowly, optics dim. _Because I’m a telepath,_ he thought about saying. Wondered what the reaction would be. Realized he'd probably have to get into the commander's mind and wipe the memory. He didn't want to do that. Didn't want to tell. Didn't want to be viewed with even _more_ suspicion. 

“I just did,” he said. “I can know things like that.”

“How?”

Blaster shrugged, and the commander vented heavily. 

“Very well. I... was in a bit of trouble when trying to decide what to do with you. You did warn me... but you also disobeyed orders.”

“I was trying to save the lives of my comrades, which is more than I can say they would ever do for me,” Blaster interrupted. 

“I know. But... they don't... And... rules are very clear...” The commander stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. Blaster pulled back as much as he could. He didn't want to hear. Wanted to remain ignorant of his date of death as long as possible. “There was something like this that happened a long time ago. A junior tactician ignored his senior, raced out to the battlefield, and won the battle with minimal losses. He... Sentinel Prime didn't execute him. He sent him to a distant base, where he'd be out of the way. That's where I’m sending you.”

Blaster stared at the blue mech. “You are serious?”

“Very. I... I didn't trust you. Still don't. But... you did... you were... trying to help. I don't want you dead.”

A slow nod greeted that statement, and, slowly, the blue mech walked away. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

When Blaster walked down the ramp of the shuttle, the last thing he expected to see was a Praxian waiting to greet him. A Praxian. Praxian! There were so few of those who understood what he was left, and even fewer of this particular type. 

“Welcome,” a soft tenor greeted him, doorwings dipping in the Praxian equivalent of a nod. “I am Prowl, commander of Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E.”

“An' Ah'm Jazz,” another voice announced, and Blaster glanced to the side, surprised at the accent. Polyhexan? Was he really that lucky? “Bondmate t' our CO, an' his person'l 'ssistant. Ah make sure he don' get too overworked. Anyways, what's yer name?”

“I'm Blaster. And these are Steeljaw, Ramhorn, Rewind, and Eject,” he said, introducing his cassettes as he let them out of his chest compartment. Prowl's doorwings twitched in surprise, and a wide grin spread over Jazz's face. 

“Mini-mechs! Ah haven' seen any o' you guy in forever! Welcome t' base!”

“They only said one mech,” Prowl said, frowning. 

Steeljaw's plating shuddered, but it was Rewind who answered. “Most of Cybertron believes symbiotes to be inferior beings, drones. They also believe hosts to be slave-masters, which does not make sense. If you believe that someone is a drone, how can they also be a slave?”

“Mini-mech, most people don' make sense,” Jazz said, crouching down, smiling softly. Then he stood again, smile widening. “Well, c'mon, we'll give ya th' run-down. An' they can run 'round if they'd like, once we finish. Nobot here'll hurt 'em or do anythin' like that.”

“Indeed,” Prowl agreed. “And as I said, welcome, Blaster.”


	18. Cosmos

COSMOS

Cosmos was sick of space. He was built for it, yes, but... He was sick of it. Always sent out to the most obscure places, to do the most inane things. He was...

It was lonely out here. He was used to it, yes, but... Sometimes, it got to be too much. And he grew to loathe the stars, the darkness, that kept him from company. Not friends; he had none. He had too little time on planet to make friends. But that didn't mean he didn't like talking to people. 

It was about then that he registered the comm signal. 

He wasn't a communications mech, but he did have upgraded sensors and scanners. You needed them when you were all alone in space. 

And this transmission... it was from somewhere close by. 

But... why way out here? The solar system it was coming from was registered as one that was marked as relatively worthless by both factions. What...

Then what the signal was transmitting registered. 

It wasn't an emergency beacon. It wasn't a signal that would come from a Command ship. It wasn't the signal a little ship would emit. 

It was a stationary signal. Coming from a stationary base. Somewhere permanent. 

And it wasn't any sort of military signal. 

It was _music_. 

Old, Cybertronian stuff, from the beginning of the Golden Age. For a long time, Cosmos simply drifted, listening to something he hadn't heard in ages. 

Then, at the end of the song... the music faded out, and a voice took its place. 

“An' that was th' _Twenty Ninth Symphony_ , by Cantus, from th' Silver Age, r'quested by our very own Prowler.”

“But now it's time for something a little more modern,” another voice broke in. “We, your hosts,”

“That's Jazz 'n' Blaster, mah mechs,” the first voice interrupted.

“Yes, they know that, Jazz. But we decided that it was about time we played our own requests. Then we realized that it's been a while since we've done any composing of our own, and...”

“Well, things got int'restin',” the first mech, Jazz, said, and Cosmos could hear the grin in the faintly staticky voice. “But we did manage t' put somethin' t'gether. We hope ya enjoy!”

“And here's our new hit single, _Respite from War_.”

“Respite from War”? Who were these people?

Then the song started playing, and Cosmos paused. It was strange. Haunting, but peaceful. Sad, but hopeful. Then the song turned up. Happy, joyful, bouncy, interspersed with moments of slow, calm, peace...

Unconsciously, the little shuttle began drifting toward the origination point of the signal, letting the music filter through his internal speakers and audios. 

The song drew to an end and was seamlessly brought into the next. Cosmos kept listening, drifting ever closer to the origination point. 

A small moon came into view. It orbited the fifth planet of the system. Cosmos didn't really notice. He was too busy listening to the music; he hadn't heard any in vorns and vorns, and he yearned for it. And so, he drifted ever closer, not noticing the edges of the gravity well tickling around his sensors before it was too late. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Prowl! We've got incoming! Small, probably a single mech... not even a shuttle, so a space-capable flier... Getting no ident, no faction... Nothing, really, other than the fact that there's something. And...”

“What is it, Skydive?”

“It's... He's... falling.”

“Falling?”

“Falling.”

“There an echo in here?” Ratchet grumbled from where he was leaning against the doorframe. “I need to get the Med Bay ready?”

“Perhaps. It is a small shuttle, so hopefully none of ours will need it, but, if it is as you say, Skydive, and he is falling, then... perhaps our... guest will need your help, Ratchet.”

“Hmph. Alright, then.”

Prowl's doorwings twitched as he watched the medic turn and walk away. Then he turned back to Skydive. “Is he still falling?”

“Yes, Sir. No sign of slowing. Should I attempt radio contact?”

“Yes.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

There was a signal pinging on the edge of his consciousness, but he ignored it. Primus, the music! It was... electrifying. All-consuming. After so long in silence, it was a blessing, a respite.

Then, another ping, more insistent this time, and he turned his frustrated attention to the sender. It was coming from the same place the music was.

Which was... getting alarmingly close. 

“Oh, slag,” the little shuttle muttered as he finally realized how deep in the moon's gravity well he was. No way to pull out now. He was too deep and going to fast. Only thing to do would be to try to slow his descent and land somewhat softly. 

Venting heavily, Cosmos turned on his thrusters. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Sir, he's slowing down, but he hasn't answered my hails.”

Prowl nodded, glaring at the screen. “Very well. I will put together a team to... meet him. Skydive, keep me updated.”

“Yes, Sir.”

With another nod, Prowl whirled and left the room, doorwings flared wide, comm link activated. 

::Jazz, Hound, Trailbreaker. We have incoming. Small shuttle, was falling, now is in a mostly controlled descent. Unidentified, not answering hails. The four of us are going out to meet him.::

::Alrighty. Ah'll be right there.::

::Same here. Trailbreaker and I’ll meet you at the front gate in half a breem.::

::Very well. I will see you there.::

As promised, Jazz was all ready waiting when Prowl arrived, and Hound and Trailbreaker arrived shortly after. They waited only as long as it took to open the wide doors to set off. 

Driving on a small moon was not something Prowl or Jazz were suited for. Hound and Trailbreaker, however, as scouts, were used to rough terrain, and easily made their way over the surface. Prowl and Jazz trailed behind, the dust kicked up in their wake drifting slowly back to the ground.

::Prowl. I have his landing coordinates. Transmitting now.::

::Thank you, Skydive,:: Prowl said, opening the small file. After a moment, he commed Trailbreaker, who was in the lead. ::Trailbreaker, please adjust our course three degrees to the west.::

::Understood.::

A few breems later, they could see the small dot that was the shuttle entering the thin atmosphere. The four wheeled mechs spun to a halt and transformed, watching as the small dot grew bigger, until it was clearly visible as a circular shuttle of some sort. 

The landing was rather awkward, the shuttle skating to a halt in the dust of the moon's surface. A moment later, the sound of a transformation could be heard, and a small, green and yellow mech stood up a short distance away from the four Autobots. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Cosmos blinked as he stood up, then vented heavily as he saw the four mechs standing in front of him. Figured. He just hoped they were at least nice, if they weren't Autobot.

“Unidentified mech, please state your name and alliance,” a smooth tenor called out, voice tiny in the thin atmosphere. 

“Cosmos, Autobot.”

“Very well. Cosmos, this moon is home to an Autobot base. I am Base Commander Prowl. May I ask your purpose here?”

Hesitantly, Cosmos stepped closer. “I... don't really have one. Here, at least. I was out scouting, and I... I heard music?”

The smaller, silver mech next to Prowl started snickering. “Really?” he asked, and the green and yellow mech immediately recognized the voice. 

“Um... Jazz?”

“Th' one'n only! Heh. Never guessed our li'l station would be, um, that popular.”

Cosmos smiled. “Well, one listener, save for those on your base.”

“What is your function, Cosmos?” Prowl asked after a klik of thought. 

“Long-range scout, officially. In reality, I just float around space and let them know if I find any Decepticons.”

“And have you?”

The green mech shrugged. “Once or twice. Not in a long time. It... I’m not usually stationed in active areas...”

“As is evident by your presence in our sector,” the tactician surmised, tilting his helm to the side and regarding the shuttle with narrowed optics.

“What'cha schemin', Prowler?” Jazz cut in, a sly look on his face. 

“Well, we could do with a space-capable mech on base, do you not agree? And Cosmos here seems to need a place to stay.” Prowl shrugged, twitching his doorwings thoughtfully.

“He's right, you know,” the shuttle muttered. “No one will miss me.”

“Aw. Well, ya ain't alone here, then. No one miss's us,” Jazz said with a grin. “We're th' outcasts. Yer welcome t' stay, if ya want.”

“I... I can?”

“Yes. If they ask after you, though I doubt anyone would ever think to ask _here_ , we can claim you crash landed, already injured, and our medic pronounced you unfit for space flight for a... long time. Then, we just sort of... forgot,” Prowl announced, a faint gleam in his golden optics. 

“I... You... Thank you. Thank you, so much!” Cosmos said, optics gleaming, smile widening into a grin. “Thank you.”

“It is no trouble at all. The services you can provide, should we need them, are invaluable. In turn, all we offer is a home.”

Laughing slightly, the green shuttle shook his helm. “It's more than anyone else has offered before.”

Hound, stepping forward for the first time, smiled. “Well, then, welcome home, Cosmos. Home to our little band of misfits. I’m sure you'll fit right in.”

“Ah ain't sure if that's a compliment 'r not, Hound.”

“It's supposed to be, Jazz.”

Chuckling, Prowl stepped up again and lifted a hand to rest on the almost-minibot's shoulder. “Welcome home, Cosmos.”


	19. Tracks and the Protectobots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the speedwriting prompt 2 for this week; "Relocating." :)

Title: When Wise Mechs are Banished – Tracks and the Protectobots  
Rating: T  
Continuity: AU G1/Movieverse mashup  
Characters: Tracks, Hot Spot, Blades, First Aid, Streetwise, Groove, Prowl, Jazz  
Disclaimer: Don't own  
Prompt: 2. Relocating

Tracks vented as he glanced at his... charges. Why the five bots had been assigned to him, he didn't know, though he did have his suspicions. He wasn't the most liked bot on base, after all, and he did know it. 

But sticking him with five war-born younglings was a bit harsh, even for his commanders. 

Not to mention they were a gestalt, and half of their conversations happened over their gestalt bond, leaving him in the dark. 

Primus. A bot as good-looking as himself shouldn't have to deal with stuff like this. Stuck in a shuttle, escorting the “recovering” gestalt so some out-of-the-way base. 

Heh. Recovering. They had been hit by a sonic weapon of some sort (as far as he could tell, anyways) in the last battle, and, apparently, needed time to recover. Or something. They were young, Tracks figured. Maybe they _did_ actually need a respite from the war. 

And hey, at least here, in the shuttle, he didn't have to worry about anyone scratching his paint. Or dodging bullets and blaster bolts. Or really doing anything other than sitting there. 

It was pretty nice, actually. Would have been nicer if those five bots would either move their conversation to entirely vocal or entirely over the bond, but... 

Well, it most definitely could be worse. 

It was the silence that finally caught his attention. He blinked and focused on the five bots sitting across from him. 

“Well?” one of them, the helo, said, and the largest of them shot a glare at the flier. 

“What? I’m afraid I wasn't paying attention...”

“I asked why do _you_ think they're sending us out here? None of us can agree.”

“They... They told me it was so you can recover. Or something.”

“They said the same thing to me,” the little red and white bot said, tilting his helm to the side. “But we are entirely recovered, and we're all operating at over ninety percent.”

“Mentally, maybe?”

The helo shifted again. “But why'd they send _him_? We don't need a caretaker.”

“Blades,” the big one hissed, and shook his helm. “It doesn't matter. We'll go and we'll stay for as long as they let us. I, for one, will be happy that nobody's shooting at you.”

Silence filled the cabin for the rest of the journey. Tracks didn't let it get to him, instead focusing on what he would do next for his plating. There was some wax that a friend... or acquaintance... of his had, and he wanted to try it out...

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Tracks had been ordered to take care of them until they were seen to by their new commander, so, when the shuttle set down, he trailed after them. 

A ping sounded on his comm, and he answered it reflexively. ::Tracks, here.::

::This is the shuttle captain. Are you on board?::

::No.::

The comm clicked off, and the ramp began to rise. Tracks whirled around, staring as it closed, then the shuttle took off and flew away. 

“What the frag?” he managed some time after it had exited the atmosphere. 

There was a soft vent behind him. “I do apologize... I take it you were not notified of your transfer?”

He turned to face a tall, black and white Praxian. “I... No. No, they just told me I was escorting those five...”

The Praxian nodded. “I see. Like I said, I apologize... It is not kind, what they do to us.”

“'Us'?”

“Ya ain't th' only one been sent here, mech,” a cheery voice interjected, and a small, silver mech seemingly pranced out of a doorway and onto the landing pad. “M'name's Jazz, an' we've all been sent here fer one reason 'r 'nother, an' most of us didn' wanna come.”

“Indeed. At any rate, may I ask your names, ranks, and professions?” 

“Tracks. I’m... I’m just a grunt, I guess...”

The black and white nodded, and turned to the five mechs. “And you?”

“Hot Spot, gestalt leader.”

“Blades, aerial support.”

“First Aid, medic. Uh, in training.”

“Streetwise, scout.”

“Groove, sniper.”

“Another gestalt, then,” Prowl hummed, looking them over. “Very well. I am Base Commander Prowl. Here at base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E, we have a rather unique command setup and a few rather special rules, which you must know to survive...”


	20. Extra -- Trine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sappy, and a bit cheesy, but oh well. :)

EXTRA – TRINE

Trailbreaker was in the Commissary when Mirage found him. 

“You love Hound,” he said as he sat down, handing over a cube of energon while lifting his own to take a drink. 

The large, black mech just looked up slowly and gazed with dim optics at the spy. 

“You do. I can see the way you look at him.”

“You love him too,” Trailbreaker muttered, taking a swig of the energon Mirage had given him. “And he loves you.”

Mirage shook his helm. “No, he doesn't.”

“Yes, he does.”

“No, he- I’m not arguing about this. He loves you.”

Trailbreaker just shook his helm and settled farther back in his seat. 

The two mechs simply sat and stared at each other for a few long moments, the tension practically palpable in between them. 

Then the mech they had been discussing walked up. Hound glanced between the two of them, one optic ridge raised. “Did I miss something? Is something wrong? 'Cause last I checked, you two were friends. Not, uh...”

“No, Hound,” Trailbreaker said, standing and setting his half-full cube on the table. “Nothing's wrong.” The black mech nodded at his friend and walked away. 

The green mech stared after him for a long moment, blinking, then turned back to Mirage. “What's up with him?”

The spy stared forlornly after the black mech, then glanced at Hound. “Nothing, Hound. It's... complicated.”

“When people say things are complicated, things don't usually turn out very well for me,” the scout said, regarding Mirage with a slightly skeptical expression. The spy just shrugged and took another drink of energon. After a moment, he, too, stood and left the room.

Hound was left staring after them, confused and worried. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Smokescreen regarded the green mech curiously. It wasn’t often that people _asked_ to see him, and it was virtually unheard of on this base. The first and only time had been when he had first set up as a psychologist, and Jazz had asked to be certified as sane again. 

And now, Hound. He was one of the more interesting characters on base; raised in the wild, yet more civil than some others. 

Not that the others weren't interesting. This base was for Smokescreen like a goodie shop was to a youngling. 

“You asked to see me, Hound?” the Praxian said, smiling kindly. 

The green tracker shifted and nodded, slowly settling himself into the comfortable seat in front of Smokescreen's desk. “Yeah. I... This is... confidential, right?”

“As long as whatever is ailing you is not detrimental to your health, yes.”

“It's not,” Hound assured, then cycled a long draft of air through his vents. “I've... Trailbreaker and Mirage have been acting strangely lately.”

“How long is lately?” Smokescreen asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew. He had observed them interacting, and had seen the tension mounting. 

“I don't know... maybe the past few cycles? Maybe a groon? I mean... I just noticed the other orn, but...”

“Looking back, you can see it a bit more obviously,” the psychologist offered, tilting his helm to the side. 

“Yeah! Exactly!”

A slow nod was the response to the exclamation. After a klik, Smokescreen spoke again. “Now, tell me, what kind of 'strange' is going on? Are they being mean to you? Are-”

“No, not at all! It's... like they're... like...” Hound vented and closed his optics, taking a moment to order his thoughts. “It's like... almost like they're... fighting over me? They aren't mean, but they... avoid each other.”

“Mm. What else?”

“Well, they're constantly talking to me, but... Even though they're not talking to each other, they keep, like, talking the other up. Like, Trailbreaker will say something about how good Mirage looks, and later, Mirage will comment on how strong TB is, and... What's so funny?”

Smokescreen chided himself mentally; it wasn't good to snicker at his patients' problems! But it was just so _obvious_! “Hound... Have you ever considered the fact that they both like you?”

“Well, of course they like me. They're my friends!”

Oh, boy. “No, Hound. Like, _like_ you.”

“Uh...” Hound said, blinking rapidly. “You mean...?”

“Yes, I mean.”

“Oh.” For a long moment, Hound sat and blinked and stared. Then he smiled. “If you'll excuse me, there's something that I... need to take care of.”

Smokescreen smiled back. “Please, do.”

And Hound stood and walked from the room, leaving the psychologist smirking behind him. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

::TB? You free?::

Hound already knew he was.

::Ah, yeah?::

::Good. You wanna keep me company?::

::I... suppose?::

:Thanks, TB! I’ll meet you at my quarters, okay?::

::That's fine.::

::See you in a few!:: With that, he closed the comm link and opened another. ::Mirage?::

::Yes, Hound?::

::Are you free?::

::I am, but I am sure you all ready know that, Hound.::

::Well, I did know you were off duty, but I didn't know if you were doing something else or not?::

::I am not. What can I help you with?::

::You wanna spend some time together? I could do with some company.::

::Of course. When would you like me?::

::Whenever you can get here, if that's okay?::

::It's fine, Hound. I will be there in approximately three breems.::

::I'll be waiting!::

And that comm line closed with a soft click. Hound smirked, satisfied, and settled down to wait. 

Trailbreaker arrived first, pinging for entrance at the door. Hound signaled it open. 

“You know you can just come in. I gave you the passcode for a reason.”

“It is impolite,” the black mech said, shifting awkwardly. 

“Not when I’ve told you you can come in at any time,” Hound said with a smile, then gestured to the chair at his desk. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You know I don't like you to stand on ceremony.”

“I-” Trailbreaker started as he moved to sit down, but was interrupted by another ping at the door. 

“Come in, Mirage!” Hound called, and the large, black mech froze.

“Hello, Hound. I...”

The two Autobots started at each other. Hound snickered. 

“Mirage, please sit down. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Mirage did so, perching awkwardly on the edge of the berth. Trailbreaker likewise finished lowering himself into the seat. Hound stood in the middle of the room, where he could face them both. 

For a few long minutes, they were all silent. Then, Hound spoke. 

“It's recently been brought to my attention that you both like me,” he said, then was, again, silent.

Mirage and Trailbreaker shifted nervously. 

“I...” the black mech started, then shook his helm and stared at his knee plating. 

“We... You...” the white and blue spy started, armor rattling as he resettled it. 

“I know you both like each other. At least, you are, or were, friends.”

“I have no problem at all with Mirage,” Trailbreaker agreed, and said spy hummed his agreement. 

“Then what's wrong with a little... trio? I mean, the three of us kinda... you know, fit together.”

The two guests in the room stared at the green mech, then glanced at each other. 

“... What?” Mirage finally managed, and Hound smiled. 

“A trio. A trine. Like the Seekers. Like the Twins are going after with Bluestreak, if they ever get around to asking for Prowl's approval.” The tracker shrugged. “It was common enough among the wild-bots, the trackers and such. Three is a really good number for being out on your own. My creators were actually courting a third when they... when the Towers fell.”

Another moment of quiet as the slim, white spy and the bulky, black tracker contemplated that, and the mid-sized, boxy, green scout mourned for his lost family. 

“I...” Mirage started, then vented. “I would have nothing against trying. I like... I love you, Hound, and... Trailbreaker, you are a good friend, and... I would be willing to learn to love you and give a trine a chance.”

Trailbreaker smiled. “Same here. I... Hound, I’ll give it a go.”

The green scout grinned brilliantly. “Good! Well, with that settled... who's up for a first date?”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Jazz curled deeper into Prowl's side as they watched the three mechs from across the room. 

“Hm... Been wond'rin' when they'd figure 't out.”

“Indeed. It was rather obvious,” Prowl agreed, a faint smile on his face. He lifted his cube of energon and took a drink, hiding the barely-there expression from the room. 

“Then 'gain, sometimes...”

“Of course. I will admit, though, it is nice to see people in relationships. The war...”

“Took too many 'way, Ah know. Now, who'd'ya think's next?”

Prowl glanced down at Jazz. “Well, to tell the truth, I am waiting for the Twins to come to me and ask for permission to court Bluestreak. They have been dancing around him for a very long time now.”

“Heh. Understatement o' th' vorn, m'love. They've been dancin' 'round each other since those two straightened out.”

“Mm.”

“What'll ya say when they do ask?”

Prowl's doorwings twitched as he smirked at his bondmate. “I will say yes, of course. It is obvious they love each other.”

The silver saboteur snickered. “Right. An' Ah bet they're freakin' over how t' get ya t' say yes.”

Prowl's smirk just widened as he settled back and continued to observe the room at large. Jazz, after a moment, curled back into the Praxian's side and cuddled close.


	21. Extra -- Unexpected Suspect

Unexpected Suspect

 

“C'mon, Prowler, Ah know ya've always wanted t' see how Ah make all'a it!”

The Praxian vented and leveled an annoyed glare at his bondmate. “I have never displayed any interest whatsoever in whe-”

“Aww, Prowler!”

Another vent, this one longer and more drawn out. “... Fine,” Prowl said after a moment. “I get off shift in two joo-”

“Prowler, yer on duty all th' time, an' you write the schedules. Yer comin'. Now.”

Scowling, the tactician stood and followed Jazz from his office. They walked through the halls – well, Jazz sauntered casually, as usual, and Prowl stalked angrily. 

If he were quite honest with himself, though, Prowl had to admit that he had wondered. Jazz had this way of procuring his supplies anywhere he went, without giving a hint as to where, why, or how. He had recently let slip that he custom-made most of it. Then, this orn, he had practically demanded that Prowl know how he did it.

And, again, if he were honest, Prowl was interested. He was a tactician; he thrived on information. And, having seen what Jazz used and had created for himself, he knew that this information could be helpful to have. One never knew when a bomb would come in handy, after all. 

So most of the anger and frustration he was showing was faked. And Jazz knew it, too. The slagger. 

Prowl followed Jazz through most of the base, all the way from the Command Center to the labs. The door the saboteur chose was nondescript, gray, and plain, just like every other door in the base. This one was, however, doubly reinforced, as all of the lab doors were after the arrival, and subsequent explosions, of Wheeljack. 

“An' this's mah supply 'n' creation room, since Ah gave Percy mah old'un,” Jazz proclaimed as he bowed Prowl into the room. 

It looked, to Prowl, like any engineer's domain. Wires, bits of plastic and metal, and other odds and ends littered the shelves and tables. 

“C'mon, over here. Ah'll show ya how t' make one'a th' little bombs Ah use fer distractions.”

The Praxian followed his bondmate, a small smile creeping over his face. He could feel Jazz's excitement. He was always hyper, but when it came to bombs, explosions, and destruction, the saboteur got positively giddy. It was one of the reasons the lithe, silver mech had gotten to be so close to Wheeljack. 

“So this is the mysterious lab where you create your fiery gifts?” Prowl asked as he glanced around. 

“O' course. Now, here's how 't's gonna go... Take this...”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

A high-pitched beeping filled the quiet of the room, and the two mechs standing at the table froze. 

“Uh,” Jazz hummed, blinking. “That ain't good. Ain't good't all.”

“Jazz?” Prowl said warningly, dropping the wire he had just connected and taking a step away from the beeping device on the table. 

“Prowler?”

“Yes?”

“We should run.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

A resounding boom made the whole base shudder. Those in the Rec Room turned to look curiously at Wheeljack, who was currently blinking owlishly toward the labs. 

Then he glanced around and saw everyone staring at him. He leaned back, optics narrowing as he frowned. 

“That wasn't my explosion!” he cried, helm fins flashing rapidly through a multitude of colors. A few people chuckled.

It was then that Prowl and Jazz stumbled through the door, Prowl looking rather stricken and Jazz grinning like the cat that got the cream. 

“Wo-owie, Prowler! Didn' know ya had 't in ya!”

Prowl turned an even glare on his bondmate, then glanced down at his white hands. “I did not know I had it in me, either.”

“What do you mean?” Sideswipe asked, tilting his helm to the side as he regarded the black and white Praxian. 

“Well, Prowler an' Ah were 'xperimentin', an Prowler got a little more inta it than Ah thought he would, an'-”

“Wait... You're saying... Prowl did that?”

The base commander shifted awkwardly, doorwings fluttering madly. “I-”

Ratchet, who had been sitting in a dark corner, rose, a scowl very clear on his face. “Prowl?”

Jazz snickered. “He blew 'em up, Ratch'.”

“What do you mean?”

“Prowl blew up th' labs.”

“What do you mean, ' _Prowl_ blew up the labs?!” he practically screamed, and everyone, save for Wheeljack, flinched. 

“He means, Ratchet, that I have learned that I am not qualified to make explosives, and will therefore avoid making them if at all possible.”

That deflated the medic slightly. “Well. At least you learn. Unlike some glitches around here,” he mumbled, turning an icy glare on Wheeljack.

Prowl just rolled his optics and turned around, intent on doing that work Jazz had pulled him away from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts/bunnies:
> 
> "WHAT DO YOU MEAN PROWL BLEW UP THE LABS?!!"
> 
> And
> 
> 75\. Wheeljack: "That wasn't my explosion."


	22. Court

Court

The three mechs snuggled together on the berth. The Praxian rested comfortably between the two larger warframes, who each had an arm over his back, under his doorwings. 

“You know,” Bluestreak mumbled sleepily, “you really should ask Prowl if you can court me. I’m sure he'll say yes. I mean, he knows I love you guys, and he really doesn't like turning me down, and you know, he doesn't really hate you. You guys prank him, but you're nice to him all the rest of the time, and-”

“Hush, Blue,” Sunstreaker ordered, smiling softly, an expression reserved only for these two mechs. “We're... going to ask him soon.”

“Heh. Yeah. It's just that your caretaker can be one scary mech when he sets his processor to it. I mean, really scary. Like, 'run and hide in the 'Con base' scary.”

Bluestreak snickered, pale blue optics brightening slightly. “He's not that bad.”

“Then you apparently haven't seen him while he's fighting 'Cons,” Sideswipe shot back with a shudder. “I do _not_ want that turned on me.”

The gray Praxian laughed again, then relaxed and offlined his optics. “Well, scary or not, you need to ask him. I want t' be properly courted...”

Over his helm, the Twins exchanged a worried, thoughtful glance.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Jazz wasn't surprised to see Sideswipe and Sunstreaker heading in his direction. And after his conversation with Prowl a couple orns before, he was not surprised to see the rather solemn expressions on their faces. 

“S'up, Twins?” he asked jovially, leaning back as they sat down across from him. The Rec Room this time of orn wasn't very crowded. Only Mirage and Hound sat in a dark corner, waiting for their third to join them after shift. 

“Well...”

“We want to court Bluestreak,” Sunstreaker announced, frowning.

Jazz smiled. “Well, wha'cha tellin' me for? S'much of a creator Ah played fer the li'l boy Blue, Ah ain't th' one ya've gotta ask.”

Sideswipe shuddered. “Yeah, but Prowl's scary. Ouch! Sunny, what was that for?”

Sunstreaker gave an expression that was somewhere between a smirk and a frown as he lowered his hand. “For being an idiot. We want to know the best way to go about asking him.”

“'Cause he's scary?” Jazz grinned when Sunstreaker said nothing. “Welp,” the saboteur said, leaning back. “Ah've only got one piece a' advice fer ya. Jus' state wha'cha want clearly an' wit'out messin' 'round 'bout it. That's al'ays th' best way t' go wit' Prowler.”

“Well, that wasn't much help,” Sideswipe groused as he stood. His brother followed, standing silently. “Alright... Well, we'll see you later, Jazz. We're off to see about a mech.”

The silver saboteur grinned. “Ah wish ya luck!”

“Well, that's encouraging,” the yellow half of the Twins muttered as they walked toward the exit. They left to the sound of Jazz snickering. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The knock that came at his door did not surprise Prowl. His bondmate had warned him of the Twin's imminent arrival. 

“Enter,” he called, pinging the door open. It swooshed into its socket to reveal two rather nervous looking Twins. “Sideswipe. Sunstreaker. Can I help you?”

“Uh... Yeah... See, there's something we wanna ask you,” Sideswipe said, slowly edging into the office. 

Prowl raised an optic ridge and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit. And tell.”

The Twins moved forward and sat immediately. Had he not known what they were here for, it would have alarmed him; unless on the battlefield, the Twins never instantly did exactly as asked. There was always some form of dwaddling around, of insubordination, of troublemaking. Prowl had to hide his smirk.

“You came to tell...?” he prompted after a moment of silence, and steepled his fingers over the desk. 

“Well... see...” Sideswipe started. 

“We want to properly court Bluestreak,” Sunstreaker blurted, then gritted his dentae. 

Prowl was quiet for a long moment, regarding the Twins with a level, examining gaze. 

“'Cause, see, we've been seeing him for a while, and we... love him... and he want's to be properly courted, and to do that we have to have your permission – well, at least in Praxian culture, and we have done some research-”

“Yes.”

“-and we really- What?”

“You may court my adoptive creation.”

There was a long moment of silence as the Twins stared with wide optics, their normal purple-blue color faded in shock. Prowl gazed back, face serene, though the faintest hint of mischief flickered in his optics. 

“Really?” Sideswipe finally managed to gasp.

“Yes. You may. Though I must issue a warning; the fact that you came to _me_ does indicate a certain level of commitment, but if you break his spark... not even the mightiest of warriors would be able to protect you from me.” His voice was positively icy by the time he finished speaking. Glaring, golden optics stared deeply into the Twins.

The frontliners twitched, captivated by the threatening glare. “Yes, sir, Prowl, sir,” Sideswipe managed, and Sunstreaker nodded frantically in agreement. 

Prowl, satisfied, leaned back slightly in his seat, threatening glare gone, satisfied almost-smirk in its place. “Very well, then. You have my permission to court Bluestreak. I expect it will be done properly. If you have any questions regarding traditional gifts, I will be happy to answer them, especially considering some such objects will be all but impossible to get out here.”

“We will!” Sideswipe exclaimed, optics bright. 

“Good. Now, unless you have questions right this instant, I have work to do and you have a first courting gift to give to Bluestreak.”

With matching grins, the Twins rushed from the room, leaving Prowl smiling benignly behind them. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Oh, Primus... He said yes, then?” the gunner asked, optics wide, as he turned the crystal formation over in his hands. It was a beautiful mix of red and gold, the exact shades of the Twins' plating, with the thinnest veins of purple-blue running through it. It was carved into the traditional “frozen spark” shape; a three-dimensional “star,” rounded spikes sticking out in all directions, and every facet sparkled in the light.

Unlike most traditional “spark crystal” gifts, the Twins had made this one themselves. 

“He did. We've actually been working on this for a while. I grew the crystal, and Sunny carved it.”

“Primus,” Bluestreak whispered again. 

The Twins watched him happily, but after a few long minutes of silence, they started shifting nervously. 

“Um... Blue. There's kinda something you need to do...”

“Oh! Right! I accept your court!”

With wide grins, the Twins rushed forward and enveloped the gunner, their _intended_ , in a warm hug. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Bluestreak stared at the shelf in his quarters. Once, it had held nothing but a few old datapads and two holo-pictures, one of him with Prowl, the other with himself, Prowl, and Jazz. 

Now, after four vorns, it was full of crystals, paintings, armor ornaments, and all other manner of traditional courting gifts. The Twins had taken him seriously when he said he wanted a formal courting, and he had loved every minute of it. It was, in his own way, a tribute to Praxus. 

There had been a few non-traditional gifts as well, but those were gifts that he knew had been specialized for him alone, like the sniper's rifle, better than any he had ever had before, made lovingly by the Twins, who were, along with Wheeljack, Jazz, and perhaps Prowl, the two closest to being the base's weapons specialists.

And now, the court was drawing to a close. They would bond. Tonight. There would be a party, but it would just be a party. There would be nothing special about it to signify that it was the Twins' and Bluestreak's bonding ceremony, but they didn't want to make a fuss about it. As much as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker liked being the center of attention... well, this was something private. Sideswipe joked that Sunstreaker didn't want to lose his “bad mech” reputation by admitting he loved a mech enough to bond with him, but all three knew it was because this was something they wanted to do for themselves, between themselves. They didn't want the whole base involved until after the fact. 

At any rate, Prowl had told them that Praxian bonding ceremonies were much more low-profile than the same ceremonies in other city-states. The courting was the big thing; after that, the bonding was simple.

And tonight was the night. Primus, he was nervous! But so, so excited. 

“Hey, Blue,” a warm voice said, interrupting his thoughts, and he jumped. Heavily armored arms wrapped around him and a rumbling chassis pressed up between his doorwings. “Ready for tonight?”

“Of course! I have been for vorns now, to tell the truth, but the courting has been fun, and-”

“Hush,” Sideswipe murmured, chuckling. “It has been. Now, let's get to the party. Cliffjumper's already annoying Sunny, and I'd hate to have to put off our bonding because he was in the brig.”

“Agreed. Though we have waited long enough...”

Sideswipe snorted. “Right. Get your aft into gear, Blue,” he said with a smile.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The next morning, Bluestreak once again woke surrounded by warmth, just as he always did. But this time, something was different...

~Mornin' Blue.~

His spark was surrounded with warmth, too. Red and gold. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Their affection and caring and love. 

~Morning. Love you guys.~

~Love you, too, Blue,~ they responded together, and, happily, the three of them simply basked in the warmth that was the bond.


End file.
